


What Once Was Lost

by kireteiru



Series: Never Forget [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Anderson? Donovan?, Dwarves, Elves, Hobbits, John is Bilbo, Lestrade is Bard, M/M, Molly is Tauriel, Moriarty is Sauron, Mycroft is Thranduil, Not that anyone knows those last two yet, Sherlock Holmes in Middle Earth, Sherlock is Smaug, Smauglock, Who should I put as Ms Hudson?, idk yet, johnbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-29 01:57:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 42,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3878017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kireteiru/pseuds/kireteiru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All that is gold does not glitter, / Not all those who wander are lost; / The old that is strong does not wither, / Deep roots are not reached by the frost. / From the ashes a fire shall be woken, / A light from the shadows shall spring; / Renewed shall be blade that was broken, / The crownless again shall be king.  -The Fellowship of the Ring | Edited 02/20/17, scene added in Ch 4</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Perilous Journey

**Author's Note:**

> Why am I doing this to myself? I already have like 3 other fanfictions to finish. Titles of works and chapters are taken from songs on the Halo soundtracks. Credit to gplus.to/TheHobbitMovies for their valuable transcripts of each movie.

Bilbo Baggins was, to all rights and appearances, a perfectly responsible hobbit. He was as his Baggins ancestors were: calm, normal, and wealthy, and never did anything unexpected. He _had_ been a bit strange as a small hobbit, talking of a world of Men with horseless carriages and metal birds that carried them through the skies and out to the stars, but that all settled down once he became the Baggins at Bag End. He had tea with his neighbors when invited and was generous with his money when asked, but for the most part he kept to himself, smoking his pipe and looking off into the distance with longing in his eyes.

Bilbo never told anyone about the dreams that still consumed his sleep, of a world of Men long gone. His head was filled with memories that both melded with and clashed against his own, but day by day he had adjusted. He accepted the world as it had been, and the life he had lived as a Man named John Watson.

But it was another Man who haunted his dreams, a Man with dark curly hair and silvery eyes and a keener mind than ever before they had. A Man named “Sherlock Holmes.” He had been close to John Watson, cured him of his limp and taken him on a great many adventures through the city of London, adventures that Bilbo – the reborn John Watson – longed for. He remembered the rush, the “adrenaline” that pulsed through his veins as the pair chased down a variety of criminals: murderers, thieves, criminal masterminds… The hobbit sorely missed it. Yet when Gandalf the Grey turned up at his door with the promise of a similar adventure, he almost didn’t see it.

It wasn’t until all of the dwarves of Thorin’s company were gathered in his hobbit hole that he remembered some strange moving picture that Sherlock had dragged John to see because of a case. A moving picture about _this very adventure!_ But he couldn’t yet remember how it ended, only that he made it to the Lonely Mountain with the dwarves and found a way inside. Well, it was better than nothing. Perhaps he would remember more later?

At last an adventure! Bilbo listened closely to the proceedings, though he sorely missed the acerbic words of the Man he had followed.  No doubt he could have deduced everything about Thorin Oakenshield from a single button and cut him to the quick with nothing but words. But at last his interest was truly caught when Gandalf pulled out the legendary map. “This was made by Thrór, your grandfather, Thorin,” said the wizard, spreading the parchment out on Bilbo’s table in the light of a lamp, “It is a plan of the Mountain.”

“I don’t see that this will help us much,” said Thorin, his disappointment clear, “I remember the Mountain well enough and the lands around it. And I know where Mirkwood is, and the Withered Heath where the great dragons bred.”

“There is a dragon marked in red on the Mountain,” said Balin, “but it will be easy enough to find him without that, if we ever arrive there.”

“There is one point that you haven’t noticed,” Gandalf said over the ensuing muttering, “and that is the secret entrance. You see that rune on the west side, and the hand pointing to it from the other runes? That marks a hidden passage to the lower halls.”

“It may have been secret once,” the dwarf prince retorted, “but how do we know that it is secret any longer? Old Smaug has lived there long enough now to find out anything there is to know about those caves.”

“He may,” Gandalf conceded, “but he can’t have used it, not for years and years.”

“Why?”

“Because it is too small for him. ‘Five feet high the door and three may walk abreast,’ say the runes, but Smaug could not creep into a hole that size, not even when he was a young dragon, and certainly not after devouring so many of the dwarves and Men of Dale,” Gandalf answered.

“It seems large enough to me, small though I am,” said Bilbo, moving closer to get a better look at the map, “and if even half of what I’ve heard of both Erebor and the cleverness of dragons is true, how could the door and tunnels to it be kept secret from both inside and out?”

“In any number of ways,” said Gandalf, his eyes gleaming in pride as he looked at the hobbit, “but in what way this one has been hidden we won’t know without going to see. From what it says on the map, I should guess that there is a closed door which has been made to look exactly like the side of the mountain. That is the usual dwarves’ method; I think that is right, isn’t it?”

“Quite right,” said Thorin. He was reminding Bilbo more and more of an overly-pompous Sherlock Holmes, or perhaps more of Mycroft, albeit without the near magical powers of deduction.

“Also,” the wizard continued, “I forgot to mention that with this map went a key, a small and curious key.” He drew it from his sleeve and handed it to Thorin. It was nearly identical to the one from the movie, though considerably more worn, and made of iron. “Keep it safe.”

“Indeed I will,” said the dwarf prince, and slipped it onto a chain already around his neck. He and Gandalf discussed things at some length with the other dwarves before at last turning to Bilbo. “Supposing the burglar-expert gives us some ideas or suggestions for how best to proceed.”

“I’d have to be there,” said the hobbit, peering at the parchment to look for any hint of the moon runes, “and see everything as it lies to come up with a reasonable and viable plan, but it seems to me that the best case scenario is to catch Smaug unawares while he sleeps and stab him through the eye with a long spear, or something to that effect. But I suppose if it were that easy, you all would have done so long ago.”

“Quite right!” Thorin repeated.

“Well, like I said, we _all_ would have to see everything as it lies, and plan accordingly.” There was a murmur of assent from the other dwarves. Bilbo managed to escape the ensuing pomposity and planning session by claiming that he needed to figure out where everyone was going to bed down for the night. After all the dwarves had been cleared places and settled in, Bilbo went outside with his pipe and smoked under the stars. He remembered that Sherlock had been addicted to cigarettes, but now he understood why. Smoking pipeweed helped to settle his mind and relax him, and while hardly the healthiest of habits, at least it was better for him than cocaine.

Gandalf came out of Bag End, carrying his own pipe and narrowly avoiding smacking his head on the low doorframe. “On behalf of Thorin and company, I thank you for your superb hospitality, Bilbo,” said the wizard, sitting down next to him on the bench outside the door, “though I cannot deny that I _am_ curious. You have settled down so much in these past decades as compared to when you were a hobbit-boy. Why have you so easily agreed to come on this quest?”

“I told you about my dreams, did I not?” asked the hobbit, “My visions of a world of Men long gone?” When the wizard nodded, he took a short drag on his pipe, then blew a smoke ring. “I have found that I miss that kind of adventure, crave that rush of danger. This quest was aptly timed indeed, for I fear that I would have gone spare if I had to stay in the Shire for another year. It’s peaceful here, but to the me that lived in that world, it’s dreadfully monotonous.”

They puffed on their pipes for a time in comfortable silence. Then the Istari said, “But that is not all, is it? You want to see if there are others like you, who remember this fallen world of Men.”

“Correct,” said the hobbit, smiling around the stem of his pipe. Sherlock would have deduced as much before speaking a word to him, and much more besides. “I hope that I am not as mad as many would no doubt claim, else I’ll be more of a hindrance than a help on this quest.”

“I do not believe you are mad, my friend.”

“Ah, but you deal in the strange and unexplained every day, Gandalf. Most people do not believe in what they cannot see with their own eyes.” Bilbo tapped out his pipe. “Well, I need to get some rest. We have an early start tomorrow, and I’m sure the dwarves would like for me to prepare a hearty breakfast. Good night, Gandalf.”

“Good night, Bilbo.”

The next morning, the hobbit was up before the sun, cooking a large breakfast for the company. He tried to use up as much of his perishable foodstuffs as possible to prevent them from spoiling in his cupboards while he was gone. When everyone was done eating, Bilbo left messages with his neighbors, explaining where he had gone and why, and left some money with the trustworthy ones to ensure that he still owned Bag End when he returned. He gathered up everything he thought he would need – money, traveling clothes, non-perishable food, and some small toiletries like soap – and set off with the dwarves and wizard.

The first leg of their journey was easy, as they were still passing through the hobbit lands. Like the nature of their inhabitants, they were incredibly tame even in the most unpleasant weather. It was only after they passed beyond the borders of the Shire that the trouble began. The weather took a turn for the worst, but Bilbo much preferred the rain to the unbearable heat of the Afghan desert.

It was his first time out and about in Middle Earth, and though he saw everything through the wary memories of a soldier, he was delighted to have left the Shire behind. He finally understood Sherlock’s continuous need to have something to occupy his time. The other hobbits may have been content to stay near Hobbiton for their whole lives, but John had lived life on the edge for far too long to go back to the slow, plodding lifestyle he had before Afghanistan, before Sherlock. It was beyond impossible – he would have eaten his gun before long – almost _did_. And now Bilbo had his memories, all boxed up inside his head.

At some point, Gandalf moved to scout ahead, leaving them alone by their small fire one night. A scream pierced the darkness, but Bilbo had heard many such cries in John’s dreams. He simply turned his head to listen to its echoes, then asked, “What was that?”

“Orcs,” answered Kíli, “Throat-cutters. There’ll be dozens of them out there. The lowlands are crawling with them.” Then, grinning a little, having apparently decided to try to scare the hobbit, the dwarf continued, “They strike in the wee small hours, when everyone’s asleep. No screams, just lots of blood.”

Bilbo was not impressed. It was incredibly clear that these dwarves had more combat experience than he, but they had never endured a long, painful war like Afghanistan, never had comrades blown to mincemeat before their very eyes.

Thorin had. “You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?” he demanded.

“We didn’t mean anything by it,” Kíli protested, but the dwarf prince cut him off before he could add any more.

“No, you didn’t,” he growled, turning away from them, “You know nothing of the world.”

“Don’t mind him, laddie,” said Balin, walking over as the dwarf prince stalked away, “Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs. After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thror tried to reclaim the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria. But our enemy got there first. Moria had been taken by legions of orcs,” he explained, “led by the most vile of their race, Azog the Defiler. The giant Gundabad Orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin. He began by beheading the king.

“Thráin, Thorin’s father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing, taken prisoner or killed, we did not know. We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us.

“That is when I saw him,” Balin continued, going practically starry eyed with awe and wonder at the memory, “A young dwarf prince facing down the Pale Orc. He stood alone against this terrible foe, his armor rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield. Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken.” He sighed, faintly dreamy. “Our forces rallied and drove the orcs back. Our enemy had been defeated, but there was no feast, no song that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived.”

Bilbo could easily sympathize. Though time and distance and rebirth had eased the pain of his loss, he still knew what it was like to see comrades die on the battlefield, and survivor’s guilt wasn’t easy to shake. “And the Pale Orc?” he asked when Balin was done waxing eloquent about the company’s leader, “What happened to him?”

“He slunk back into the hole from whence he came.” Thorin had returned to the story time circle, drawn by the talk of battle. “That filth died of his wounds long ago.”

The hobbit watched the dwarf prince lie back down on his bedroll. Though he had confidence in Thorin’s skills – more so than his own, at any rate – he couldn’t help but think, ‘Now that’s just _asking_ for trouble.’

* * *

 

The company continued on their journey. Once, it rained all day and left them soaking wet and chilled to the bone. However, by the next day, the sun was out, leaving them all warm and dry. It also dried up the ground, making it easier to ride on than mud.

The road they followed led them to the ruins of a farmhouse. It was still standing, but two of the walls and a fair portion of a third had been torn away, leaving only the main support posts in place. Bilbo eyed the place with increasing trepidation, noting a number of old – but _large_ – tracks leading to and from the farmhouse.

“We’ll camp here for the night, “Thorin declared, “Fíli, Kíli, look after the ponies. Make sure you stay with them.”

Gandalf ducked into the ruins of the house, stopping to examine a piece of broken crockery. Sherlock would have been able to tell exactly where the clay for the pot came from and how long ago it was made and who made it, but all the wizard could say was, “A farmer and his family used to live here.”

Thorin ignored him, calling for Oin and Gloin to start a fire.

“I think it would be wiser to move on,” said the wizard, “We could make for the Hidden Valley.”

“I have told you already,” the dwarf prince stated under no uncertain terms, “I will not go near that place.”

“Why not? The elves could help us,” Gandalf protested, “We could get food, rest, advice.”

“I do not need their advice.”

Bilbo listened to the argument in silence until Gandalf stormed off, muttering about the stubbornness of dwarves. He had learned the value of silence while running around London’s underbelly and while the detective was thinking. He smiled at John’s memory of Sherlock in their flat shouting, “Anderson, face the other way! You’re putting me off!” Eru above and Morgoth below, he missed the man and all of their adventures, even the debacle with Moriarty.

Against the wizard’s advice, the company settled down for the night. The former army doctor had a quick bite to eat, then scooped up two bowls to take to Fíli and Kíli. The brothers were minding the ponies a short distance from the fire, but when he came over with their food, Bilbo found them peering over a fallen log. There was a flickering light off in the trees, another campfire – with three trolls around it. They had two of the company’s ponies tide up off to one side in their camp.

At Fíli and Kíli’s insistence, the hobbit slipped over to the pack animals quiet as a mouse, attempting to set them free without the trolls noticing. Unfortunately, the knots were too tight for even his clever fingers to undo at speed. Bilbo looked around for a knife, and spotted an ill-cared for blade on the hip of one of the trolls. He sneaked over to lift the weapon, but his attempt could not have been more poorly-timed. The troll with the knife reached for his handkerchief to cover his sneeze and grabbed the hobbit by mistake, sneezing into the back of his coat. It was far from the worst thing that had happened to him, running around with Sherlock – he didn’t even flinch.

It all happened pretty quickly after that. Bilbo was captured, and the troll holding him threatened to tear him limb from limb if the dwarves didn’t surrender their weapons. Thorin was furious, but Gandalf would be even more so if their burglar perished before the quest had even truly begun, and the wrath of a wizard was fearsome indeed. The dwarf prince dropped his weapon with a growl and signaled for the others to do the same. The trolls bound half of the company in sacks and tied the rest to a spit, which they turned over the fire, ignoring the dwarves’ protests.

Bilbo stayed quiet and listened to the trolls discuss how to season the company, but it was another statement that truly caught his attention – “Dawn ain’t far away, so let’s get a move on. I don’t fancy being turned to stone.”

‘That’s right!’ he thought quickly, ‘They turned to stone in daylight. I need to buy time until sunrise. Can I get them distracted with talk? Trolls weren’t bred for intelligence.’ “Wait!” he called to the creatures, “You are making a terrible mistake!” Ignoring the protests of the dwarves, he thought fast. “With the, uh, seasoning, I mean.”

“What about it?” one of the beasts demanded, the other two leaning in, “What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, have you smelt them?” the hobbit responding, “You’re going to need something stronger than sage before you plate this lot up.” The dwarves continued to shout at him, sometimes cursing in their native tongue, but Bilbo remained focused.

“Well, what do you know about cooking dwarf?” another troll asked.

“Well first off, don’t eat the ones with parasites!” the former doctor sputtered, pushing himself to his feet while trying to remember the movie and the rules of hunting wild game, “Otherwise, _you’ll_ get infected!” The dwarves shouted some more. “And you should probably skin them first. A few of them have this really nasty infection that doesn’t belong anywhere _near_ your mouth, much less your innards, no matter what race you are.”

“What a load of rubbish!” said the first troll, “I’ve eaten plenty with their skins on. Scuff ‘em, I say, boots and infectimacation and all.”

Bilbo could have cried when he spotted Gandalf slipping out of the cover of the trees. The wizard clambered up onto the rock that was shielding the clearing from the faint rosy light of daybreak beyond. “The dawn will take you all!” he roared, and slammed the butt of his staff down onto the stone, splitting in two and sending light spilling into the clearing. The trolls tried to run, but it was already too late. Whenever the light hit them, their flesh turned to stone.

At last, they were still, their yells silenced. Gandalf hopped down from his rock. He tapped one of the new statues, looking pleased. “Excellent idea of stalling for time, Bilbo,” said the Istari, “Get them to talk of their stomachs, and they will forget everything else.”

“Thank you,” said Bilbo, letting himself sink to the ground, “And I pray I never have to do it again!”

“At this rate,” the Istari responded, “that will be a futile prayer. Come, let’s get you all out of there.” He put out the fire and helped the dwarves off the spit first, then loosened the ropes on the sacks so the others could squirm free. “They must have come down from the Ettenmoors,” said Gandalf to Thorin as the prince came to stand next to him, examining the statues.

“Since when do mountain trolls venture this far south?” Oakenshield asked.

“Oh, not for an age,” was the reply, “not since a darker power ruled these lands.” They exchanged a meaningful glance. “They could not have moved in daylight.”

“There must be a cave nearby,” the prince declared, and gathered the company together to search for it. Bilbo found it first, following the trolls’ stench to their cavern – and their hoard. The hobbit opted to remain outside, away from the smell. He knew the stench would cling to his clothes like smoke no matter how many times he washed them. He had no desire to stink of troll for the rest of the journey.

He was surprised when Gandalf emerged with a weapon for him: an Elvish dagger, which fit him more like a short sword. He named it “Sting,” if he remembered correctly. The hobbit admired the make of the blade, finer than anything from his world of Men, and gave the wizard his thanks, though he added on, “But I have never used a sword in my life.”

“And I hope you never have to,” the Istari said, “but if you do, remember this: true courage is about knowing not when to take a life, but when to spare one.”

Their attention was drawn away by the arrival of Radagast the Brown, another wizard like Gandalf. He brought ill news: a necromancer had taken up residence in Dol Guldur, Sauron’s old fortress from ages past, and was spreading darkness in the Greenwood. The wizards discussed what Radagast had seen in the ruined castle – until a Warg charged out of the brush. Thorin cut it down with his own Elvish blade, only for another to attack Fíli. He shot it with an arrow. stunning it, and Dwalin slew it with his weapon.

“Warg scouts,” the dwarf prince called, “which means an Orc pack is not far behind!”

“No shit,” Bilbo muttered to himself before he rushed off after the dwarves. Radagast drew the bulk of them away for a time, until the party murdered one rather noisily. The hobbit, at least, had the sense to stab the orc through the neck so it couldn’t alert its followers. Its Warg, however, howled and thrashed under the dwarves’ blows, giving away their position.

Gandalf led them away at top speed, darting amongst heavy rocks on a plain adjacent to the forest. Bilbo spotted a distinctive rock amidst all the dull ones at the same moment the wizard did, and began making for it even before Gandalf shouted for them to follow him. Out of all of them, the wizard’s strides were the longest; he reached the stone first and disappeared. Bilbo reached it next, but could not immediately see where the wizard vanished to. He pulled Sting from its sheath and comforted himself with the fact that a blade was not viewed as an inferior now – it did not have to compete with guns, for no one had any.

At least, not yet. And Bilbo found that he greatly feared the day someone developed the technology.

“This way, you fools!” Gandalf reappeared from a crack between the rocks. The dwarves and hobbit all quickly slid down into it, the wizard counting them all before sliding back down himself. As they all righted themselves, a horn sounded above them, followed by the twang of bowstrings, the clash of swords, the pounding of hoof beats. An Orc fell through after them, an Elvish arrow through its eye. Bilbo picked it up after Thorin tossed it aside, and examined it thoroughly as the company followed the narrow path. He already knew where it led.

Rivendell was even more magnificent than the motion pictures had depicted, more than he’d ever imagined. Now he understood why the Bilbo from the books and movies had chosen to come to Rivendell after leaving the Shire for good. Doubtless he would do the same, when the time came. That brought to mind the One Ring.

Bilbo followed the dwarves down into the valley, considerably paler than before. He remembered well the way the Ring had begun poisoning _that_ Bilbo’s mind the same way it had Sméagol’s, and he feared what it would do to him when he acquired it in the goblin tunnels. He needed to tell Gandalf about it before he could no longer tell friend from foe and knew nothing but lust for the Ring. He waited until after their dinner was finished, but before Gandalf was called to answer Saruman. “Gandalf,” he said quietly, unsure how to approach the wizard and elves, “I would speak to you and Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel, if you have the time.”

If the two elves were surprised that he knew the Lady of Light was there, they did not show it. They four of them gathered in Elrond’s private rooms, and there the hobbit explained about his dreams, the books, and the motion pictures. “I only saw the movies,” said Bilbo sadly, “I never read the books. And the movies were made in reverse order, with the Quest to destroy the One Ring being made before the journey on which it was found.”

Gandalf puffed on his pipe, contemplating the hobbit’s words. The elves seemed to be thinking on it, too. “I understand if it seems unbelievable,” said the former doctor, “but can we at least reserve judgment until _after_ we finished this quest?”

“We believe you, Bilbo,” Galadriel answered, “truly we do. But if our world does indeed follow the path laid out in these stories, it does not seem that there is much we _can_ do, aside from oust this Necromancer and wait.”

“You said that you found the One Ring – or will find it – in the goblin tunnels of the Misty Mountains,” said Elrond.

“Yes. Gollum – Sméagol – dropped it.”

“Once you have it, we can begin gathering allies. _We_ might believe you, but there are others who will not be so easily persuaded.”

“If that is indeed the case, we should not waste this opportunity,” puffed the wizard, “Bilbo. Once Erebor is retaken – if it is indeed retaken – will you make an attempt to carry the Ring directly to Mordor?”

Bilbo tilted his head. “You don’t want to wait for the Fellowship?”

“I would prefer to save that as a contingency plan,” Gandalf answered, “for both you and Frodo would suffer under the Ring’s long influence. It would change you, and I believe that the benefits are not worth the curse.” He lowered his pipe. “Will you do it?”

“Yes,” said the hobbit, “Gladly. I don’t even have it, and already I wish myself rid of it. And that,” he nodded to the wizard, “is why I spoke now. I didn’t want to wait, and then have it be too late, with the Ring’s sway already over me.” He went with the blessing of the elves and wizard, returning to the company’s rooms, only to depart again almost immediately while the elves and wizard joined in conference with Saruman the White, the traitor, about their very quest.

Bilbo knew that Gandalf would be unavoidably detained for a number of days, providing cover for their escape, and informed the dwarves. The quest proceeded relatively smoothly even without him – at least until the company entered the Misty Mountains. The peaks loomed above them, creating strange shadows in the thick fog that gave the range its name.

The mist gave way to storms – but the storms weren’t actually storms at all. “Well, bless me!” Bofur shouted over the crashing, “The legends _are_ true! Stone giants!”

The living masses of rock were pitching boulders at one another between the mountains, causing and even greater clamor than the thunder overhead. The rocks smashed against the ridges above the company, their splintered remains falling towards them and forcing them to press close to the cliff side to protect themselves.

The giants abandoned their boulders to throw fists instead. Their impacts broke apart the cliff path they were on, separating the party. Bilbo felt the rock under his feet weakening, and barely managed to fling himself over and get his upper body on firm ground before that part of the path fell away. Ori and Dwalin noticed him struggling for purchase and rushed over to help him to safety.

Because of the broken path, the company was forced to seek shelter in a cave elsewhere in the mountains – at least until sunrise. Things should have settled down by then. Thorin shot Bilbo dirty looks the entire time, clearly blaming him for almost plunging to his death. When they finally found a narrow, shallow cave to bed down in for the rest of the night, the former doctor was tempted to turn back for Rivendell while he still could. But then he would go right back to his dull old boring life.

‘Ugh, _breathing. Breathing’s boring.’_

His lips pulled up into a smile, remembering his flat mate’s opinions about his “transport.” The hobbit had chosen to sit up rather than sleep. One night wasn’t going to kill him or affect him detrimentally, especially considering what was going to happen later that night.

Bofur, who was on watch, came over to sit on the end of his bedroll. “You all right there, Bilbo?” he asked, giving him a once over, “You’ve been quiet ever since we left Rivendell.”

“I’m fine, Bofur,” he replied, “Thank you. Thorin’s just seemed a bit more irritable than usual, so I thought I’d keep my trap shut, give him one less thing to be snappish about.”

“Hm.” The dwarf nodded in understanding. “What were you talking to Gandalf and that elf about?”

Bilbo’s eyebrows rose for a second. His mind was nowhere near as sharp as Sherlock’s, but given what he knew about the dwarrows and their prince, it wasn’t a difficult deduction to make. He chuckled a little. “I wasn’t trying to convince them to let me stay in Rivendell, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he responded, pretending he didn’t hear a few soft sighs of relief from the not-sleeping dwarves, “I’ve just been having very, _very_ strange dreams lately, almost prophetic, but I had no frame of reference for them, and difficulty remembering them when I woke. I thought I’d ask Gandalf and Lord Elrond for their wisdom.”

“Prophecy, huh?” said the dwarf, scratching his chin, “Anything useful?”

“I thought – I _thought_ – I saw the Lonely Mountain at one point,” he lied easily, “but I’ve never been there, so I can’t be sure. And…” Bilbo cast his mind around for images from the movies. “Spiders. Barrels in a river. A dwarf made of stone. Fire.”

“Think furnace with wings,” said Bofur, repeating his words from the night the company piled into Bag End. Hobbit and dwarf grinned at one another.

“Yes,” said the former doctor, “Probably dragonfire. But there’s a bit more I’m not sure about. I’m not sure it relates to the quest at all.”

Bofur hummed again. “Maybe you’re right. But if you’re seeing the Lonely Mountain and dragonfire in your dreams, that has to mean we’ll at least _get_ there, right?”

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” the hobbit confirmed, “The correct one, I hope. But getting there won’t mean anything if Smaug isn’t defeated.” He shot a glance at Sting, by pure coincidence, then did a double take. He lunged for the blade and pulled it partway out of its sheath. The blade was glowing blue, though not brightly enough to be orcs. That meant – “Goblins!” he shouted as the floor began to shake, “Up! Everybody up, quick!”

They all barely had time to scramble to their feet before the ground dropped out from under them. They fell through a series of tunnels and chutes before landing in a wooden cage. Bilbo immediately made himself as small and subtle as possible while the dwarves railed and shouted. Like their distant orc kin, goblins were stupid and slow, and so failed to notice him in the shadow of the dwarves. He slipped out of the cage and hid as the rest of the company was carted away by the little blighters.

When at last they were gone, the hobbit drew his sword, still glowing, and crept into the tunnels after them. As be padded quickly and quietly across a rope bridge and onto another platform, a goblin rushed him out of the darkness, sword drawn. While in Rivendell, however briefly, one of the elves had given him a few tips on handling a blade, so he wasn’t completely hopeless in battle. Even so, he barely managed to disarm the goblin. Both of them lost their footing in the process, and tumbled over the edge.

Air rushed past him as he fell, and stupid though it was, he thought two things before blacking out: ‘Jesus, take the wheel!’ and ‘Such fall. Much fast.’

* * *

 

Bilbo woke up half-concealed in a pile of broken mushrooms, sore but alive and uninjured. He held himself very still when he heard shuffling nearby, knowing that if Gollum found him, he would be killed. The twisted Stoor (a kind of hobbit ancestor) was pulling the goblin Bilbo had fought out of the chamber. The goblin woke up and began to struggle, flailing about in Gollum’s grasp. In a fit of rage, the Ring’s creature snatched up a rock and smashed it repeatedly against the goblin’s head until it was knocked unconscious again.

The hobbit cringed when the One Ring fell from Gollum’s loincloth. “Nasty goblinses,” the Stoor was hissing, tugging the limp body along, “Better than old bones, Precious; better than nothing.” He didn’t notice that the Ring was gone when he disappeared into the dark. The hobbit skirted the place where the Ring had fallen, retrieving Sting before creeping closer to the One Ring.

It was cold when he picked it up, but it warmed with unnatural swiftness on his palm. Bilbo cringed again and dumped it in his pocket before moving after Gollum. The Stoor was beating the goblin to death with another rock. If Bilbo had not been a soldier in his other life, he would have flinched from the sight. As it was, he forgot that Sting was glowing, and Gollum swathe light from the blade. The Ring’s creature jumped into his little boat and paddled over to the shore of the underground lake, leaving the small rock island behind. Bilbo was ready for him, and had Sting pointed at the Stoor’s throat when he tried to surprise him.

The twisted creature recoiled from the Elven blade, hissing. “Ahh! Gollum, gollum, ack!”

“Back,” Bilbo commanded, poking the creature with the tip of the sword, “Stay back! I’m warning you, don’t come any closer!” He struggled to remember what had happened in the stories. _He_ knew that Gollum had essentially a split personality, but the Bilbo from the books and movies _hadn’t_. He had to be extremely careful moving forward, so that things didn’t change _too_ much.

“It’s got an elfish blade, but it’s not an elfs,” hissed the creature, “Not an elfs, no. What is it, Precious? What is it?”

“My name is Bilbo Baggins,” he said, careful to keep Sting between them, “I’m a hobbit from the Shire.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Gollum, “We like goblinses, batses, and fishes, but we hasn’t tried hobbitses before. Is it soft? Is it juicy?” He circled closer.

Bilbo remembered that identifying himself to the creature before him was what led the Ringwraiths to Hobbiton, but it needed to be done if he couldn’t go straight to Mount Doom from Erebor. “Keep your distance!” he warned, giving the Stoor another poke, “I’ll use this if I have to!” Gollum recoiled, snarling, but the ex-soldier held his ground. “I don’t want any trouble, do you understand?” he declared, “Just show me the way to get out of here, and my sword and I will be on our way.”

“Why?” the creature asked, “Is it lost?”

“Yes, yes,” Bilbo said hurriedly, unsure of how much time he had, “and I want to get un-lost as soon as possible.”

“Ooh! We knows!” crowed Gollum cheerfully, “We knows safe paths for hobbitses! Safe paths in the dark.” And there was the alternate personality, Sméagol.

The Gollum side took over and snarled, “Shut up!”

Reflexively, Bilbo answered, “I didn’t say anything.”

“Wasn’t talking to _you_ ,” Gollum snapped, before the cheerful self came back.

“But yes, _we_ was, Precious,” chirped Sméagol, “ _We_ was!”

“Look, uh, I don’t know what your game is,” said Bilbo, shifting his grip on Sting, “but I-“

“ _Games?_ ” bubbled Sméagol, “We love games, doesn’t we, Precious? Does it like games? Does it? _Does it?_ Does it like to play?”

Gollum seemed less and less like a particularly dangerous mental patient and more and more like a particularly obnoxious child. Bilbo refused to let his guard down, remembering both the movies and “Jim from IT.” “Maybe?” he responded.

Sméagol looked delighted. “What has roots nobody sees, is taller than trees? Up, up, up it goes and yet – never grows?”

Fortunately, Bilbo remembered this part quite well. Sherlock had become obsessed with riddles for weeks after seeing the movie, leading John to memorize the ones in it and all others he could find. “The mountain,” he answered.

Sméagol began laughing uproariously. “Yes, yes,” he gasped between guffaws, “let’s have another one, eh? Yes, come on! Do it again, do it, do it again! Ask us!”

The Gollum personality came out in force. “No!” he roared, “No more riddles! Finish him off. Finish him now! _Gollum, gollum!_ ” He charged Bilbo, but the hobbit quickly stopped him.

“No!” he cried, “No, no, no – I want to play, I do. I want to play. I can see that you are very good at this. So why don’t we have a game of riddles? Yes – just you and me.” Though he kept his sword in hand, Bilbo crouched near the Stoor to make himself seem less threatening.

“Yes!” Sméagol had returned. “Just, just – just us.”

“Yes, yes,” said Bilbo, nodding, “And if I win, you’ll show me the way out?”

“Yes, yes-” Then Gollum burst out again. “And if it loses? What then? – Well, if it loses, Precious, we will eats it!” He laughed unpleasantly. “If Baggins loses, we eats it whole.”

The hobbit winced, but as he’d set his reward, Gollum had the right to choose his own. “Fair enough.” He straightened and lowered Sting, though he didn’t sheathe the blade.

“Well, Baggins first,” said the Stoor.

“Thirty white horses on a red hill,” Bilbo recited, “First they champ, then they stamp, then they stand still.”

Gollum thought for a few minutes, opening his mouth several times before changing his mind and closing it again. At last, he asked, “Teeth?” Bilbo frowned but nodded, and Gollum crowed. “Teeth!! Yes, my Precious, but we – we – we only have nine.” He opened his mouth to show the hobbit, making him cringe yet again. “Our turn. Voiceless it cries, wingless flutters, toothless bites, mouthless mutters.”

“Wind,” answered the hobbit after a moment, making the Stoor snarl. “A box without hinges, key, or lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid.” How Bilbo was able to keep his voice from trembling, he didn’t know, but he was glad of it. It kept him from showing weakness.

“A box,” the creature muttered, waving his hands in front of him as he thought out loud, “and a lid… then a key… It’s nasty. Uh, box, uh…” He smacked his forehead many times, then shouted, “Eggses! Eggses!” He danced a little and laughed. “What crunchy little eggses, yes. Grandmother taught us to suck them, yes.”

A bat made a noise in the darkness, but the former doctor kept his gaze locked firmly on the Ring’s creature. “Ah,” said Gollum, “We have one for you: all things it devours, birds, beasts, trees, flowers. Gnaws iron, bites steel, grinds hard stone down to meal.”

It took a minute for the hobbit to recall that one. At last, he said, “Time.”

Gollum hissed angrily, making as if to jump at him. The ex-soldier lifted Sting, reminding him of the blade, and the creature settled, fuming. “Last question,” he snapped, “last chance. Ask us a question. _ASK US!_ ”

“All right, all right!” the hobbit snarled in reply, “What have I got in my pocket?”

“That’s not fair,” the Stoor pouted, “That’s not fair! It’s against the rules!” He threw down the rock he’d been hiding behind his back, intending to bludgeon the former doctor to death. “Ask us another one.”

For a moment, Bilbo flipped through all the riddles he knew, seriously considering giving him a different one to avoid the inevitable confrontation – but then he felt ghostly touch of familiar hands gripping his shoulders, a familiar long coat brushing his back. ‘Sherlock.’ Hallucination or no, it firmed his resolve. “You said ‘ask me a question,’” he said, and the phantom hands gave him a squeeze, “Well, that is my question. What have I got in my pocket?”

“Three guesses, Precious,” the creature pleaded, “It must give us three!” He held up two fingers.

“I can be generous,” said Bilbo, clutching Sting close and wishing for a gun, “Take four.”

Sméagol resurfaced and look delighted. “Handses!” he shouted, but both of the hobbit’s hands were on Sting, out of his pockets. The Stoor pouted and turned away to mutter to himself. “Fish bones, goblin’s teeth, wet shells, bat’s wings… Knife!” This last he shouted back at the hobbit. Gollum took control once more and snarled, “Shut up!”

Bilbo smiled sheepishly and held up Sting, which was distinctly too large to fit in his pocket. “Two more.”

Sméagol returned and whined unhappily, shuffling about and muttering. Finally, he said, “String!” Gollum came back and added, “Or nothing!”

The hobbit winced, knowing what was about to happen. “Two guesses at once, wrong both times.” Gollum fell to the floor, sobbing. Bilbo cringed and let him weep for a minute, then said, “I won the game. Won’t you show me the way out?”

“Did we say so, Precious? Did we say so?” Like a switch had been flipped, Gollum stopped crying and peered at him. “What _has_ it got in its pocketses?”

“Air,” said Bilbo.

“Air?” the Ring’s creature, “ _Air?_ It’s nothing!”

“Air is something!” the ex-soldier argued, “Can you breathe under water?”

Gollum hesitated. “Uh… No?”

“See? Air is something! Wind is moving air!”

The Stoor scowled and reached for his side. No doubt it was where the Ring had been hidden, but there it was no longer. When he did not find it, the creature panicked, searching all over himself for it. “Where is it?!” Gollum cried, scuttling through the cave, turning stones and bones and splashing through the shallows of the lake as he sought the Ring. “Where is it?! No!! _Noo!! Where is it!?_ ” He scampered past the hobbit, and though Bilbo wanted nothing more than to leave the Ring with the Stoor, that was something he couldn’t afford to do. _“Lost!”_ Gollum wailed, “Curses and splashes, _my precious is lost!”_

“What have you lost?”

“Mustn’t ask us!” the creature snapped, “Not its business!”

“Well – well, maybe I can help you find it.”

“No!” Gollum whirled to face him. Then suspicion flared. “What has it got it its nasty little pocketses?” he hissed.

“Are you accusing me of being a thief?!” Bilbo demanded, but nothing would have dissuaded Gollum at that point, possibly not even Eru himself.

The Ring’s creature charged him, shouting, “He stole it!! _HE STOLE IT!!_ ” and Bilbo turned and fled. He had made an effort to keep himself in shape, even in the easy hamlet of the Shire, and so was able to keep out of the other’s reach. But as he ran, he could have sworn he heard familiar footsteps on the stone floor and saw a familiar coat whipping around corners ahead of him. The hobbit dug in his pocket for the Ring and held it tight in his fist, trying to use his fear of it to keep its mental powers at bay until he reached Gandalf.

There was an explosive noise somewhere overhead, and he knew that the wizard had at last caught up with them. The sound echoed through the caverns, but Bilbo could tell where it had come from. He slipped through a crack, then put the Ring on, cringing as he did so.

The filmmakers had gotten that right, at least. The world was washed out with the Ring on, gray and phantasmal, the hobbit’s surroundings smeared and twisted and warped by invisible winds. Gollum raced past the unseen hobbit, unintentionally leading the way to the exit just as he’d promised.

Bilbo didn’t even consider killing Gollum when he saw his companions race by through the exit. He simply waited for them to pass, then gathered himself and leapt over the Ring’s creature, following them out into the fading day.

The dwarves were still much faster than the hobbit, despite keeping himself in shape. He wasn’t able to keep up with their pace and soon fell behind. When they stopped ahead of him, he slipped off the Ring and drew close enough to hear Thorin shout, “I’ll tell you what happened! Master Baggins saw his chance, and he took it! He’s thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since he first stepped out of his door. He’d been lost ever since he left home. He should never have come and had no place amongst us! We will not be seeing our hobbit again. He is long gone.”

“ _Someone_ has abandonment issues,” said Bilbo, scrambling over a log. “Oof!” He fell, landed on his bum, then pushed himself up and brushed himself off. “It appears Óin isn’t the only one who’s hard of hearing – I was almost right behind you.”

“Bilbo Baggins,” boomed Gandalf, “I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life!” But his eyes were worried, searching.

“Bilbo!” cried Kíli, “We’d given you up!”

“How on earth did you get past the goblins?” Fíli asked.

“How indeed,” said Dwalin.

This time, he had an answer. “I followed you all, but got attacked by a goblin,” he answered honestly, “and we fell off a platform. I landed on some soft mushrooms, but the goblin wasn’t so lucky, luckily enough for _me_. I got lost in the tunnels, but I heard an explosion and the sounds of battle, and I was able to follow them out.” He gave Gandalf a pointed look and a small nod, which the wizard returned.

“Good to have you back,” said the Istari, patting his shoulder.

“I want to know,” Thorin demanded, “ _why_ you came back.”

“Look,” Bilbo said to the dwarf prince, “I know you doubt me, I know you always have. And you’re right, I often think of Bag End. I miss my books. And my armchair. And my garden.” He didn’t say anything about London or Baker Street or Sherlock. “See, that’s where I belong. That’s home. And that’s why I came back – ‘cause you don’t have one. A home. It was taken from you. But I will help you get it back, if I can.” He smiled faintly at the dwarf prince, then froze as howling filled the air, the smile dropping from his face.

“Out of the frying pan…” Thorin began.

“…and into the fire,” finished Gandalf, “Run! RUN!”

The company began running down the mountain as fast as they could to keep ahead of the Wargs pursuing them. One of them caught up with Bilbo, but the hobbit pulled Sting from its sheath and ducked as it snapped at him, shoving the blade up through the soft part of its throat and into its brain. He jerked the sword free and raced after the dwarves.

“Up into the trees!” Gandalf shouted as they were driven onto an outcrop where tall pines grew, “All of you, climb!”

Bilbo scrambled up the tree nearest him, clinging tight to the highest branch he could safely reach. He briefly looked around to make sure that the others made it into their own trees before focusing on the Wargs. When he spotted a white orc astride an equally pale Warg, he wanted to shout, _“I told you so!”_ at Thorin. Watching the color drain from his face felt like vindication enough.

At Azog’s command, the Wargs leapt as high as they could, scrabbling for purchase on the bark and snapping at the dwarves’ heels. The trees began to tilt and fall under the weight of the wolves, but fortunately, the members of the company had the sense and skill to jump to new trees as theirs fell. On and on it went, trees falling one after another, until they were all hemmed in up in one tree at the very edge of the cliff. This one didn’t fall, but not because it was stronger than the others – not enough Wargs could get close enough to topple it.

Bilbo collected an armful of pinecones and brought them to Gandalf. The wizard set them alight with his staff, and the dwarves furled them down on the Wargs. More than one raced away with its fur ablaze.

The hobbit heard the creaking of the tree over the crackling flames before anyone else and warned the others as the pine began to tilt, then fall. They managed to hang on despite the sharp jolt as it landed, jutting out into the open air. Fortunately, it did _not_ go tumbling over the edge, sending them to their deaths on the mountain below. Bilbo stared down into the darkness in fright, but he still felt more alive than while he lived in the Shire.

Thorin’s yell of pain made him look away from the abyss. The dwarf prince had been seized by Azog’s white Warg, which was on the verge of delivering a killing blow. The hobbit snatched Sting up and lunged to his defense, holding the blade steady as he faced down the orc. Another orc, far more impatient, charge him with an axe, but he ducked the beast’s swing and decapitated it with one of his own. The ex-soldier stabbed its Warg in the nose, then went for its sensitive ears and toes, driving it away from the injured prince.

Then the Great Eagles began dropping out of the night. Some snatched up the orcs and Wargs and threw them over the cliff edge. Others knocked at the fallen trees, making them creak and roll down the slope, crushing more of the creatures under their weight. One created a whirlwind of fire by beating its wings over the flames.

More Eagles swooped in and began scooping up the other dwarves, carrying them away. One of them fluttered down to carefully pick up Thorin. Bilbo found Orcrist and scooped it up, then moved further into the open for the Eagle who came for him. The Eagles caught Gandalf up, too, and bore them all away, leaving the orcs and Wargs to burn.

* * *

 

The Great Eagles landed at the Carrock, settling their burdens down on the bear-shaped rock. Gandalf rushed over to Thorin, but Bilbo got there first, pulling open the prince’s eyes to check for a concussion. The dwarf quickly proved that he was perfectly healthy, given the circumstances. “You!” he shouted after he came to, scrambling to his feet without so much as a wobble, “What were you doing?! You nearly got yourself killed! Did I not say that you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild and that you had no place amongst us?!” He advanced on Bilbo, whose hand dropped to Sting.

“I’ve never been so wrong in all my life!”

The hobbit was shocked when he was swept up into a tight embrace, so much so that he failed to return it until the last minute. “I am sorry I doubted you,” said the dwarf.

“No, I would have doubted me, too. I’m not a hero or a warrior… not even a burglar,” he replied.

_“Don’t make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”_

‘Where are you, Sherlock?’ he thought to himself as the dwarves exclaimed over the sight of the Lonely Mountain in the distance, ‘I can’t be alone here. And heroes do exist – does this mean that you’re on the side of Mordor? Please don’t be. I don’t want you to die. Where are you?’


	2. Belly of the Beast

At a poke from the other dwarves, Bilbo crept forward to scout ahead, glimpsing the skin changer Beorn and Azog’s orcs from a distance. Once he determined their relative positions, he scurried back to the company to report. Of course, Gandalf knew about Beorn, too, and they made for his home beyond the Misty Mountains at the edge of Mirkwood.

They bedded down for the night inside the home, waiting for their host to join them in his more amicable form. That night, Bilbo pulled out the Ring to turn it over in his hand. It seemed such an innocent piece of jewelry, but he could hear it whispering to him, pulling at his mind.

_“One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.”_

“In Mordor where the Shadows lie,” the hobbit mumbled, before shoving the Ring into his pocket and forcing himself to sleep. He had a strong will, but even the strongest of wills could be broken if given enough time. Bilbo wished for nothing more than to magically transport himself to the slopes of Mount Doom so he could correct Isildur’s mistake and throw the Ring into the fire. Even if it meant he couldn’t come back, he would do it with a glad heart.

He drifted off to sleep, trying to plot a path from Erebor to Mordor, but as he had not seen many maps of the whole of Middle-earth, he couldn’t figure out much beyond, “Get there, destroy the Ring.”

Bilbo was woken by a very large bumblebee crawling on his nose. He blinked at it, and it wiggled its antennae at him before taking off and buzzing toward the kitchen. The rest of the company were already there, thanking their host for breakfast. The hobbit settled in to join them, accepting a plate of toast, bacon, and eggs from the skin changer with a grateful nod and a smile. He listened in silence as Beorn told them a little of his history with Azog the Defiler, noting the unmistakable wear of his skin under the manacles clamped tight around his wrists. The ex-soldier inside him recognized the marks of torture, while the doctor saw infection and broken bones. It was times like these that he hated John picking up bits of Sherlock’s observational skills; he could clearly visualize what had been done to Beorn under Azog’s “care.”

“A darkness lies upon that forest,” the skin changer was saying, referring to Mirkwood, “Fell things creep beneath those trees. There is an alliance between the Orcs of Moria and the Necromancer at Dol Guldur. I would not venture there except in great need.”

“We will take the Elven Road,” said the wizard, “That path is still safe.”

“Safe?” Beorn snorted derisively, “The Wood-Elves of Mirkwood are not like their kin. They are less wise, and more dangerous. But it matters not.”

“What do you mean?” Thorin asked, adding his two pence.

“These lands are crawling with orcs,” the other responded, “Their numbers are growing, and you are on foot. You will never reach the forest alive.” He stood up, picking up a small white mouse that had been scampering around on the table. “I don’t like dwarves. They’re _greedy_ and _blind_ , blind to the lives of those they deem lesser than their own.” After a pregnant pause, he continued, “But orcs I hate more. What do you need?”

* * *

 

They reached the edge of Mirkwood ahead of the orcs. While the dwarves set to removing their gear from the ponies, Bilbo and Gandalf took a few steps down the Elven Path to examine a statue beyond a vine-covered archway. “The Elven Gate,” said the Istari, “Here lies our path through Mirkwood.” Then leaning in and lowering his voice, “Bilbo, I want you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“I know you said you had need of the Ring to complete this quest and retake the Mountain, but I want you to promise me that if you can avoid using it, you will. That if you can get by without it, you won’t hesitate to do so.”

“I promise,” he answered, right before Gandalf was contacted by Galadriel.

The wizard was silent for a long moment, then murmured, “The High Fells. So be it.”

“The Ringwraiths are free.”

He turned back to the hobbit. “You’re sure? You remember this from your Before?”

Bilbo nodded. “It’s coming back, slowly though. The Necromancer Beorn spoke of in Dull-something?”

“Dol Guldur?”

“Yes, that. It’s actually Sauron, I think. What’s so special about that place?”

“It was established after the fall of Númenor, almost two thousand years ago,” the wizard told the hobbit as they headed back out into the light, “ _by_ Sauron. If we leave him be and let him recover his power, he will be capable of great evil.”

“Yeah, I’ll pretend I know what Númenor is.”

“A once-great kingdom of Men,” the wizard told him, “which Eru sank the bottom of the sea when Sauron turned the hearts of its inhabitants to darkness. Not my horse!” he called to the dwarves, “I need it!”

“Wha – wait – you can’t go up against Sauron on your own! It’s suicide!”

“I must confront him, and at least delay whatever fell plans he has made, force him to show his hand.” The wizard swung back up onto his horse. “I’ll be waiting for you at the Overlook, before the slopes of Mount Erebor. Keep the map and key safe. Do not enter the mountain without me.” Gandalf shot a hard look at Thorin. “This is not the Greenwood of old,” he warned, “The very air of the forest is heavy with illusion. It will seek to enter your mind and lead you astray.”

“No kidding,” Bilbo muttered to himself.

“You must stay on the path – do not leave it! If you do, you’ll never find it again.” He wheeled his horse around and began galloping away. “No matter what may come, stay on the path!”

“Come on!” said Thorin, turning to enter the forest, “We must reach the mountain before the sun sets on Durin’s Day.”

As one, the company entered Mirkwood. The further in they got, the more Bilbo realized that Gandalf had not been exaggerating about it. The air of the forest was warped and strange, and felt heavy on his skin and in his lungs. He closed his eyes and focused on the feel of the stones beneath his feet, listened to the mutters of the dwarves. Because he was not relying on sight alone, he was able to warn them when the forest tried to trick them away.

But after two such incidents, leaving the path became unavoidable. Untended, it had fallen away where it bridged the forest river, forcing them to try and find a way around. They never did – the moment they tried to cross, the forest ensnared their senses and led them further astray.

The company tired fast after that, and paused briefly to take a rest under some trees with a strange whiteness wrapped around them. Bilbo noticed Bofur messing around with the white stuff, pretending he was playing an instrument. The hobbit wanted to scold him for doing so, but couldn’t remember why it mattered. He looked up, and caught a glimpse of sunlight filtering through the canopy.

 _‘The sun,’_ he thought suddenly, already beginning to climb, _‘Maybe if we can see the sun, we’ll be able to tell if we’re headed in the right direction.’_

Breaking the canopy was a literal breath of fresh air. He let out an enormous sigh of relief now that he was free of Mirkwood’s oppressive weight. When he opened his eyes, he immediately spotted the forest river, which joined up with the Long Lake near the foot of the Lonely Mountain. They were closer to all three than he expected, probably because he’d kept them on the path longer than expected, too.

Then he saw the trees shifting, rocking, moving their way, and remembered the spiders. Massive, awful things they had been, standing out clearly amongst his other memories. Bilbo was careful to keep his footing on his climb down, but it didn’t matter. A spider charged him from the trees and bound him up in its silk. He squirmed as it dragged him away, groping for Sting.

The hobbit cut himself free the moment he laid hands on the blade. The spider felt its burden grow lighter and whipped around, hissing, but the ex-soldier was already on top of it, stabbing it between the eyes. It spat at him, then died, all of its legs curling up under it.

The spider had dragged him close enough to the nest to hear the hisses of the other creatures and the muffled shouts of the captive dwarrows. Bilbo gritted his teeth and dug in his pocket for the One Ring, slipping it on. The spiders’ hisses became clear as day for him, but he ignored their cries of “Feast! Feast!” in favor of finding a way to distract them from the dwarvish meal. As in the movie he remembered, he tossed a hunk of wood to make a noise and lure most of the spiders from the nest. Also as in the movie, one stayed behind and tried to get an early snack in, rearing up to bite Bombur. The hobbit darted between its legs and stabbed it through its thorax before it could administer a fatal injection of venom.

Its body fell to the forest floor below, but Bilbo didn’t see, having already turned to cut the dwarves free. “Come on!” he hissed, pushing them to move, “They’re gone, but not for long!”

There was a faint rustle in the trees, making all the dwarrows panic. The spiders were returning, but they were closely followed by the sylvan elves. In the ensuing chaos, Bilbo slipped the Ring back on again and followed them all to the fortress of the Elf King Thranduil. He tailed the majority of the dwarves to the dungeon to learn where they were taken, then shadowed an elf he recognized as Legolas back out into the king’s main hall. The elf had, in turn, been following Tauriel, an auburn-haired elf, but after speaking with Thranduil, he retreated to another part of the fortress.

“I thought,” the king said to Tauriel, “I ordered that nest to be destroyed not two moons past.”

“We cleared the forest as ordered, my lord,” she responded a little nervously, “but more spiders keep coming up from the south. They are spawning in the ruins of Dol Guldur. If we could kill them at their source-“

“That fortress lies beyond our borders, and we have not the might to take it,” Thranduil interrupted coolly. There was something unpleasantly familiar about the cadence of his speech. “Keep our lands clear of those foul creatures; that is your task.”

 _‘You’re probably in a heap of trouble right now, Gandalf,’_ thought Bilbo, _‘Please, hold on.’_

“And when we drive them off, what then? Will they not spread to other lands? Mr. Holmes-“

“We have not the might to aid them, _Molly_ ,” Thranduil – _Mycroft_ – growled, “They cannot be our concern-“

Before he could second guess himself, Bilbo slipped off the Ring and stepped out of his hiding place, saying, “Molly? Mycroft?”

Both of them whirled on him, weapons drawn. He quickly backed up, hands in the air, saying, “It’s me, John Watson! Sherlock’s flat mate!”

Tauriel lowered her daggers right away, but Thranduil was less trusting. “Prove it,” said the Elf King, brandishing his sword in the hobbit’s direction, “How did we first meet?”

“You called me on a pay phone,” the doctor answered, “and had your assistant and driver take me out to a warehouse in the middle of nowhere to – um, ‘avoid the attention of Sherlock Holmes,’ I think it was? You tried to bribe me to spy on him.”

At last, Thranduil lowered his sword. “And what manner of creature are you supposed to be?” he asked, “I don’t recall you being this short.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “Did you never read _The Lord of the Rings_ series? I’m Bilbo Baggins.”

Tauriel turned to Thranduil. “I told you!”

The Elf King scowled. “Yes, so you did, but it’s far too late for that now. Why don’t you both bring me up to speed, then?” So they did, with Bilbo doing most of the talking. When he reached the end of his summary of events in Middle-earth, Thranduil asked, “Have you _found_ Sherlock?”

The hobbit shook his head. “I haven’t met anyone else from London until now,” he said, “I thought I was crazy.”

“Have you _told_ anyone?”

“I warned Elrond, Galadriel, and Gandalf about what I could remember at the time. It’s been slowly coming back. I remembered Saruman’s betrayal, though, so I didn’t say anything to him.”

Thranduil hummed in acknowledgement. Tauriel beamed at the hobbit, and stepped in and knelt to hug him. He squeezed her back. “You intend to help the dwarves to their mountain no matter what,” the Elven King observed, returning his sword to its sheath.

“Yeah. Will you at least let me get them out? Cause that would be great.”

Thranduil assessed all of his information. Then he said, “That does seem to be the best course of action. I will gather our best warriors and meet you in Dale once the dragon is dead.” He looked at Tauriel. “You know what to do. Make sure it gets done.”

Hobbit and elf grinned.

* * *

 

Bilbo took the dwarves out by way of the river, leading them down to the cellar of the fortress where the guardsmen were sleeping off their intoxication. When he told the dwarves to get in the barrels, there were instant hissed protests, but they all clambered in when Thorin growled, “Do as he says!” The hobbit pulled the lever and sent them all into the water, jumping in after them.

The water was ice cold, and drove the breath from his lungs. He burst back to the surface, gasping for air, and clung to the nearest barrel.

“Well done, Master Baggins,” said Thorin from where he was holding on to others’ barrels. They, in turn, were clinging to the rock banks on either side of the river, preventing the company from moving on. The hobbit sputtered and waved for them to continue, and the prince let go, turning in his barrel to start paddling ahead.

They emerged from Thranduil’s fortress and plunged down a short waterfall before being pulled along by the rapids. They were almost to the guard outpost when Bilbo heard the horn sounded to close the gate. An elf pulled the lever to close the sluice gates just as they rounded the bend, stopping all of the barrels against the steel.

The hobbit knew what was coming, and drew his sword as the elves did the same. A black arrow whizzed seemingly from nowhere to slam into the back of one of the elves. He tumbled into the river as orcs began swarming the outpost, attacking the elves. Bilbo couldn’t remember which ones he killed, so he simply stabbed every one that came in range and tried to make sure that the dwarves received their weapons.

Kíli leaped from his barrel, aiming for the lever to open the sluice gates. Dwalin tossed him a weapon to fight the orcs with, and Fíli threw a blade into an orc that was trying to sneak up on his brother from behind. The brunette dwarf was almost to the lever, and –

-a Morgul arrow slammed home into his thigh. He grimaced and fell back. Another orc crawled over the battlements to kill him, intending to take advantage of his inability to move – but an elvish arrow pierced its throat and killed it.

It was Tauriel, joining the battle at last. She slew another orc with her bow before drawing her short swords for close combat. More elves came with her, slaying the orcs that had attacked the outpost. The sight of her was enough to make Kíli gather his strength and pull the lever despite the pain, then roll off the stone platform back into his barrel.

The shaft of the Morgul arrow snapped off and went spinning past Bilbo’ head into the water. The dwarves fought their way down to the edge of Long Lake, moving ahead of their orcish pursuit with the strong current of the forest river. The air was warm, especially for that time of year, preventing them from feeling chilled when they finally climbed from the river.

Bilbo wrung out his clothes and peered around, looking for Bard. He spotted the man’s shadow before the man himself and turned to face him, managing to keep his hand from going for Sting when he saw the man’s bow. ‘Well, he _is_ called “Bard the Bowman” in the book, isn’t he?’ he thought, as Balin persuaded the man to talk rather than shoot.

“What makes you think I will help you?” the man asked, wrestling the barrels onto his boat.

“Those boots have seen better days,” the dwarf pointed out, “as has that coat. No doubt you have some hungry mouths to feed. How many bairns?”

“A boy and two girls,” was the reply.

“And your wife, I’d imagine she’s a beauty.”

“Aye. She was.” Then, so low that Bilbo was sure he wasn’t meant to hear, “And a lot more faithful than the last one, too.”

In _English_.

“You speak English,” Bilbo asked in the same tongue, lifting his hands and jerking back a little when Bard whipped around, an arrow strung, “And faithful – Greg? Is that you? It’s me, John Watson, Sherlock’s flat mate!”

The man relaxed, lowering his bow. “My God, man,” he said, “It’s good to see you. Nice to know I’m not the only one here.”

“I bet it is,” the hobbit responded, “But _we_ aren’t alone either. Molly, Sherlock’s lab assistant, she’s Tauriel, and Mycroft is Thranduil.”

“Mycroft…”

“Sherlock’s brother, the one with the brolly fetish.”

“Ah, him! Ugh, he’s the Elf King? What about Anderson and the others?”

“Dunno. Haven’t met anyone else.”

The hobbit was about to add more, but Dwalin had apparently had enough of the foreign-tongued chit-chat. “Oh, come on, come on!” he hissed at Thorin, “Enough with the niceties.”

The Londoners exchanged glances. “What’s your hurry?” Bard asked, switching back to Westron, Middle-earth’s common tongue.

“What’s it to you?” the dwarf demanded defensively.

“I would like to know what you are doing in these lands.”

“We are simple merchants,” Balin interjected, his tone innocent, “from the Blue Mountains, journeying to see our kin in the Iron Hills.”

The man’s expression made it clear he didn’t believe a word of it. “Simple merchants, you say?”

“We need food, supplies, weapons,” Thorin said, stepping forward, “Can you help us?”

The ex-DI glanced over at the barrels the company had come downstream in. He rubbed one of the many scrapes and scratches they had received on the journey. “I know where these barrels came from.”

“What of it?”

“I don’t know what business you had with the elves, but I don’t think it ended well.” The bowman looked back up at them. “No one enters Laketown but by leave of the Master. All his wealth comes from trade with the Woodland Realm. He will see you in irons before risking the wrath of King Thranduil.” He began anchoring the barrels to the deck of his barge, exchanging subtle glances with the hobbit, who was blinking Morse code.

“I’ll wager there are ways to enter that town unseen,” said Balin.

“Aye,” Bard answered, “but for that, you will need a smuggler.”

“For which we will pay,” the dwarrow responded, “ _Double_.”

Bard was clearly conflicted, knowing what he and Bilbo did about Laketown’s near future, but he was also desperate. In the end, he took their money, and the dwarves climbed aboard. Bilbo hung back to talk quietly with the man as they sailed for Esgaroth.

“You think it’s worth it?” the hobbit asked, helping where he could as the man steered the barge across the lake, “Mycroft said that he would come to Dale when the dragon was dead, but…”

“I _do_ have the Black Arrow,” said the ex-DI, “and there _is_ a wind lance atop one of the towers in Laketown, but… I’ll only have one shot, with outrageous odds stacked against me, even if the stories about the broken scale or whatever are true. And hitting a moving target’s hard enough when it’s _not_ airborne – or breathing fire. It’d be like… jumping out of a car going a hundred and twenty, off London Bridge, and into a shot glass.”

“If Sherlock was here, I bet he could give us the odds,” Bilbo said sadly, holding taut a rope that the man handed him.

“Aye,” the other replied, “Never thought I’d say it, but I wish he were here. He’d deduce everyone in a heartbeat and know exactly what was needed to get the job done.” Bard steered the boat expertly through the ruins on the lake, then into Laketown itself after the dwarves and hobbit were concealed in the barrels with fish atop them.

Neither Bilbo nor Bard were surprised when the man’s son Bain ran up to them to warn them that the Master had spies watching their house. “The back way it is,” the hobbit muttered, and followed the ex-DI’s instructions to come up into the family’s house via their toilet.

“Da, why are there dwarves climbing out of our toilet?” Sigrid asked, baffled.

“Will they bring us luck?” Tilda added eagerly, making her father grimace.

‘Not the kind we’re looking for,’ he thought, exchanging yet another look with his fellow Londoner, who had just climbed out of the water with considerably more speed and skill than the dwarves before or after him. Bard waited until all the dwarves had gone up before heading up himself.

Tilda was handing out blankets to the company, who were stripping out of their wet clothes. Bard slipped over to Bilbo. “You said that Mycroft would meet us in Dale?”

“Yes,” the hobbit answered, watching the dwarrows shift and mutter about the wind lance, “but Molly and Legolas’ll probably get here first, if they follow the movie timeline.” He shivered under the blanket, and pulled it tighter around him. “But beyond that, I don’t know. Mycroft never saw the movies, so I hope Molly will instruct him before she comes, and Gandalf doesn’t return until the Battle of Five Armies, if I remember right.”

“You do.” Bard was silent at his son told the dwarves about the loosened scale. “Do you think it’s really there?”

“I don’t know, but I guess we’ll be finding out soon enough.”

* * *

 

Thought they tried their best, they were still caught by the Master’s servants and dragged before the entirety of Laketown. But once he’d learned who they were and why they’d come, the Master’s greed asserted itself, and he gleefully welcomed the King Under the Mountain despite Bard’s protests.

The people of Laketown celebrated all night, and gathered to see them off the next morning. People cheered and played music while the dwarves loaded the boat. As in the movie, Fíli, Kíli, Óin, and Bofur were left behind, but before the others’ departure, Bilbo pulled them aside and told them to go straight to Bard and wait for Tauriel. “She’s coming,” he said to Fíli, “She’ll help you.”

Then the remainder of Thorin’s company set off across the Long Lake, and made it to the Overlook before noon on Durin’s Day. Across a small valley were the ruins of Dale. Finally looking upon the devastated city with his own eyes, it hit home that they were about to face off against an enemy that was entire orders of magnitude greater than anything he had ever endured before. Even Moriarty was nothing next to a live, fire-breathing dragon with a mind keener than a razor’s edge.

 _‘I’ll_ burn _the_ heart _of you,’_ drifted through his mind, and for an instant Bilbo wanted Sherlock with him so badly that he could scarcely breathe.

The company passed through Dale and continued on to the base of the Mountain itself. Bilbo circled around to entrance along the main path, searching for the hidden door-

-but the pathway up was scarred with claw marks and scorched with dragonfire. Smaug knew about the secret door, or had at least found the carved dwarf suspicious and made an effort to destroy it. Either way, it was going to be a difficult climb. But they made their way up just the same, hugging the rock face and making use of every hand- and foothold available to them. At last, they all stood on the now considerable narrower ledge with the door concealed somewhere in the wall in front of them. The climb had been long, and the last of the daylight was fading fast. As the dwarves began tapping on and hacking at the wall, Bilbo took a seat and pulled out a bit of food. He forced himself to eat and drink despite his stomach twisting itself into knots, anxious over what awaited him inside the mountain.

‘Stand by the grey stone,’ he remembered the moon runes saying, ‘when the thrush knocks and the setting sun, and the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the keyhole.’ The dwarrows were beginning to despair as the sun dipped closer and closer to the horizon. When all the sunlight was gone, the company turned morosely away one by one, but Bilbo simply held out his hand and said, “Key.” Thorin gave it to him, though the dwarf looked as if he would rather have thrown it as his head.

Then the hobbit scooted closer to the wall, and waited. The dwarves all stared at him, clearly expecting something extraordinary, but he didn’t move until he finally heard the flutter of wings. His keen eyes followed the thrush as it flew to the grey stone and began knocking its snail against the rock.

And then the thick clouds that had been rolling in parted, just long enough for a single shaft of silvery light to lance through the darkness and illuminate the keyhole on the mountainside. The hobbit did not crow his victory, or berate the dwarves for their impatience and lack of faith. He simply stood up, fitted the key into the lock and turned it, and then pushed open the door.

The air inside the mountain was still and stale, and smelled powerfully of metal – the gold of the dragon’s hoard. For a moment, everyone stood together in the antechamber in silent reverence, simply enjoying the fact that they had made it so far. Then something occurred to Thorin. “How did you know?” he asked Bilbo, “How did you know that ‘the last light of Durin’s Day’ meant the moonlight?”

“I am… a spirit re-embodied,” he said, looking down into the mountain, “with memories from another world.” The hobbit turned back to the dwarrows. “And in that world, the tale of this quest – from the moment Gandalf knocked on my door until sometime after now – was nothing but a book, a story. It was later make into a picture that moved and spoke as if by magic, and I went to see it. And Tauriel the elf and Bard from Laketown – they are also re-embodied like me. I knew them – we were friends. Thranduil a bit less so – he was the brother of one of my other friends, but they are all we’ve got right now.”

“If you know about our quest,” said Dwalin, taking a step closer, “then surely, you _must_ know how it _ends_?”

Bilbo heaved a great sigh. He had known that question was coming. “ _If_ we stick to what I remember, then… yes,” he answered, “I do. But I felt that you all would not appreciate me saying that _you_ ,” referring to Thorin, “and Fíli and Kíli would not survive.” He allowed for a moment of silence to let that sink in, then continued with, “Since we seem to be going by what the picture dictated, rather than the book, I will tell you of that. I accidentally woke Smaug while searching for the Arkenstone. I caught _sight_ of it, but not _hold_ of it when he chased me through the hoard,” he lied, remembering Thorin’s madness, “You all came to my aid, and we lured him down to the forges. We hurt him. It was nothing substantial, but it was enough to drive him from the mountain, and he took his revenge on Laketown. Though Bard slew him with a Black Arrow, the entire town burned first.

“A great battle followed – dragon sickness. Elves from Mirkwood, dwarves from the Iron Hills, the survivors of Laketown, and Eagles from the Misty Mountains against orcs and other Beasts under the command of Azog the Defiler. He and Bolg killed Fíli and Kíli, and you died killing Azog while the Elf Legolas slew Bolg.” He looked back toward the secret door.

“But the path up here was supposed to be unmarred, not scarred with claw marks and dragonfire. I wasn’t supposed to know Tauriel and Thranduil and Bard. And know, I don’t know how this will end.” Bilbo looked back and Thorin. “What would you have me do, Thorin? If you order me to go, I will, but I won’t be held responsible for what follows.”

The prince was silent for a long moment. “You said that Smaug was slain? That we retook the mountain?” When the hobbit nodded, he said, “Then it is worth it, in my mind, even if it costs my life. Go, Bilbo.”

The ex-soldier nodded, turned, and went. Balin followed him down a little ways. “You know what you’re looking for?” he asked when they paused.

“A large jewel that glows from within, with a white aura.”

“Ah, that’s it,” said the dwarf, “Those mages of yours must have been good.”

‘He means the filmmakers,’ Bilbo realized. “Yes, they were.”

The dwarf nodded. “Good luck, Bilbo.”

“Thank you.” The hobbit sneaked down into the main hall of Erebor. It was even grander than he’d imagined, and filled with more treasure than the movie had shown. Buried somewhere in the heaps and heaps of gold was the Arkenstone that the dwarrows so prized – but also the dragon Smaug. Bilbo gave the pile a cursory scan, searching for the glowing gem, with its pale blue and violet nebulous core and white aura, but it was nowhere to be found. He made a face, then creeped further into the hoard, Ring at the ready.

The movies and books had failed to encompass the full scale of exactly how much gold the dragon had taken from the dwarves. Most of it had been fake, computer-generated, or out of sight, away from the camera angle. Bilbo padded carefully through and on the heaps of gold – until he slipped on a patch of coins that was not as stable as it looked. It unloaded a deluge of gold that exposed the dragon’s closed eye.

‘Shit,’ though Bilbo, already beginning to back away. Then he added, ‘Double shit,’ when Smaug shifted under the treasure, pushing towards him. He ducked into cover, mentally going through all of the colorful language he knew as he scrambled for the Ring. Good thing, too, because Smaug woke and emerged from the gold less than a minute later.

The dragon was even grander up close than on the screen, though by virtue of proximity, he was also far more dangerous. The gold and jewels that had become embedded in his scales glittered in the low light, accenting his red color, a gradient that went from blood orange to nearly black on various parts of his body.

Bilbo heard the dragon sniff the air, then part his jaws in a rumbling growl. **“Well,”** he breathed, **“ _thief._ I  smell you.”** He was investigating the area where the hobbit crouched. **“I hear your breath. I _feel_ your air.”** He snaked over Bilbo’s head, then back. **“Where are you?”**

This close to Smaug, the hobbit could understand why the filmmakers had chosen to have Bilbo panic. The dragon’s teeth seemed sharp enough to cut air and were perfumed with the scent of old blood. He found himself automatically scrambling to get away, John’s soldier’s instinct demanding that he put distance between himself and the threat, but just because he was invisible, didn’t mean the effects of his passage were, too. The gold clinked and scattered under his feet as he fled, and Smaug slithered after him, rumbling. Bilbo managed to scramble behind a pillar to hide.

 **“Come now,”** the dragon purred, **“Don’t be shy – _step into the light._ ”** He said the “t” in “light” as if it was a syllable all its own, just like Sherlock. As Smaug snaked around the pillar, Bilbo suppressed a hysterical giggle at the thought of Sherlock throwing a fit about someone sharing his verbal tic. **“Mmmm… There is… something about you,”** the dragon continued, **“something you carry. Something made of _gold_ … but far more _precious_ …”**

The word brought flashbacks of the goblin tunnels and a glimpse of Sauron’s Eye, echoing in his mind, and the hobbit so acutely felt the pull of the Ring in that instant that he scrambled to tear it off.

Smaug’s eye – gold, but with unusual hints of blue and green – focused on him. **“There you are,”** he rumbled, **“ _thief_ in the _shadows_.”**

Bilbo gulped. He felt like he was facing down Moriarty again, but this time without the promise of Sherlock coming to aid him. “I – I did not come to steal from you, O Smaug the Unassessably Wealthy,” he managed, despite the instinctual prey-fear response that damn near froze him in place, “I merely wanted to gaze upon your magnificence.” He pulled back against the pillar as the dragon edged a little closer. “To see if you really were as great as the old tales say. I – I did not believe them.” His voice involuntarily skipped an octave higher on his last sentence.

The dragon’s lips curled in wrath, baring his teeth, and he pulled back, pushing off another pillar to slip behind the one Bilbo had pressed himself against. He strode over and posed atop a platform nearby, flaring his wings to make himself bigger and more intimidating. **“And do you _now?!_ ”** he roared.

“Truly,” said the hobbit, “the tales and songs fall utterly short of your enormity, O Smaug the Stupendous.” There was no need for him to fake a breathless tone – even though the dragon could have burnt him to a crisp any day of the week, he was indeed a magnificent creature.

“Do you think flattery will keep you alive?” When Bilbo stuttered out a negative, he growled, “No indeed. You seem _familiar_ with my name, but I don’t remember smelling your kind before. Who _are_ you, and _where_ do you come from, may I ask?” He popped the “k” at the end of his question. As he spoke, he slithered down from the platform and prowled closer, hugging the gold with his body.

And then, as in the movie, Bilbo spotted the Arkenstone, half-hidden under a patch of gold. It had its own allure, its own pull, much like the Ring. ‘Oh,’ Bilbo thought, flinching as the dragon edged even closer, waiting. “I come from under the hill,” he gasped.

 **“Under hill?”** purred the dragon, edging closer still.

Bilbo nodded vigorously and shot another glance at the Arkenstone. “And under hills and over hills my path has led,” he said with a tiny hint of a hysterical giggle at the end, “And – and through the air, I am he who walks unseen.”

 **“Impressive.”** Smaug rumbled, snaking his bulk around to come even closer. He seemed to be filled with restless energy. **“What else do you claim to be?”**

“I – I am Luck-W-Wearer,” said the hobbit, briefly waving his hand in front of his face to clear the air. The dragon’s breath smelled powerfully of sulfur and phosphorous, and high-octane jet fuel under the blood, an acrid combination that reminded him of airports. How appropriate, given that dragons flew. “R-Riddle-maker…”

 **“Lovely titles,”** said Smaug, his tone indulgent and amused even as he thoroughly sniffed the hobbit, **“Go on.”**

“Barrel-rider,” said Bilbo, cupping his hands in front of him as if to mimic the shape.

 **“ _Barrels!_ ”** hissed the dragon, leaning a tad bit closer as he spoke before recoiling back and away, **“Now that _is_ interesting. And what about your little _dwarf_ friends? Where are _they_ hiding?”**

The ex-soldier feigned confusion, drawing on John’s military training and focusing on the conversation rather than the fear in his gut at being so closer to an _actual dragon_. “Dw-dwarves? No, no dwarves here. You’ve got that all wrong.”

 **“Oh, I don’t think so, _Barrel-rider_. They sent you in here to do their dirty work while they _skulk about_ outside.”** Smaug briefly turned his head away, and the hobbit used the opportunity to inch his way closer to the Arkenstone.

“Truly,” he insisted when the dragon’s attention returned to him, “you are mistaken, O Smaug, Chiefest and Greatest of Calamities.”

 **“You have _nice_ manners,”** he rumbled, **“for a _thief_ and a _LIAR!_ I know the smell and taste of dwarf – _no one better!_ ”** As he continued to speak, Bilbo once again began moving toward the Arkenstone. **“It is the _gold_ ,”** he growled, before his voice deepened in intensity, “ **They are drawn to treasure like _flies_ to _dead flesh_.”** Smaug’s forepaw slammed down atop the gold near the Arkenstone, upsetting it and causing the glowing stone to go bouncing down the mountain of treasure. Bilbo groaned and raced after it, the dragon on his heels.

 ** _“Did you think I did not know this day would come?!”_** he roared, sliding between pillars. The hobbit tripped over a short ledge and fell onto a pile of gold, only to have more coins spill down on top of him. Even over the clinking and clanking, he heard Smaug continue, **“That a _pack_ of _canting dwarves_ would come _crawling_ back to the mountain?!”**

The ground shook under him, coupled with the sound of Smaug’s not-inconsiderable bulk landing nearby. **“The King Under the Mountain is _dead!_ ”** When Smaug’s claws landed on either side of him, he forced himself free of the pile and continued down the slope. **“I took his throne. I ate his people like a _wolf_ among _sheep._ ”** Bilbo jumped off a short flight of stairs to avoid the dragon, but missed his footing and wound up tumbling down the slope of gold after the Arkenstone. **“I kill where I wish, _when_ I wish! My armor is _iron!”_** Bilbo heard the _fwap_ of the dragon’s wings opening, the rush of air over them as Smaug glided down after him. The hobbit slid under a stone structure not unlike the one the dragon had posed on, right before said dragon landed on top of it and curled around it like a cat. **“No blade can pierce me!”** A low growl rumbled in his chest as he slipped off of it, returning to crouching over his treasure. **“It’s Oakenshield!”** His tail cracked like a whip. **“That _filthy_ dwarvish usurper! He sent you in here for the Arkenstone, _didn’t he?”_**

“No, no, no,” the doctor insisted, creeping toward the stone where it had settled on the gold, “I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about.”

 ** _“Don’t bother denying it!_** **I guessed his foul purpose some time ago!”** Bilbo scrambled back when Smaug’s claws curled around a supporting pillar for the structure. **“But it matters not.”** The dragon’s great head dipped so that he could peer through the open side. **“Oakenshield’s ‘quest’ _will_ fail. A darkness is coming. It will spread to every corner of the land.”**

‘He doesn’t sound very enthusiastic about it,’ the hobbit thought as the dragon twisted himself around to point downslope rather than up.

 **“You are being _used_ , thief in the shadows,”** rumbled the creature, ducking down close to the gold once more, **“You were only ever a _means_ to an _end_. The  coward Oakenshield has weighed the value of your life and found it worth _nothing_.”**

“No,” said Bilbo, despite knowing that Thorin would try to kill him over the treasure, “no, _you’re lying!”_

 **“What did he promise you, a share of the treasure? As if it was his to _give_. I will not part with a _single coin, not – one – piece of it!”_** When the hobbit made a break for the Arkenstone, Smaug lashed his tail through the gold, sending both hobbit and stone flying. **“My teeth are _swords_ ,”** he roared as the ex-soldier tumbled to a stop against another pillar, **“My claws are _spears._ My wings – _are a hurricane!”_**

Bilbo looked up, eyes roving the dragon’s chest for the broken scale. He finally lit on it on his left breast, just like Bain had said. “So it _is_ true,” he gasped, “The Black Arrow found its mark.”

**_“What did you say?”_ **

‘Oh, right. He has ears, too.’ “Uh, I was just saying your reputation precedes you, Smaug the – Tyrannical,” he responded, scrambling to his feet and backing away, “Truly, you have no equal on this earth.”

A white glow out of the corner of his eye. The Arkenstone. He looked down at it, breathless, then back up at the dragon.

 **“I am almost tempted to _let you take it_ ,”** Smaug rumbled, meeting his gaze, **“if only to see Oakenshield _suffer_. Watch it _destroy him_ , watch it _corrupt his heart_ and _drive him mad._”** His tail lashed the air like a cat getting ready to pounce. **“But I think not. I think our little game ends here. So tell me, _thief_ ,”** he said as he pulled back, his chest beginning to glow with the heat from his fire, **“how do you choose to die?”**

Smaug lunged as Bilbo jerked on the Ring, scooping up the Arkenstone and running for his life. He heard the dragon thrashing and screaming behind him, trying to find and incinerate him. The hobbit quickly wrapped the stone in a scrap of cloth to hide its light and tucked it into his clothing where it wouldn’t fall out during all of the exertions that were soon to follow.

Thorin was where Bilbo expected him to be, and reacted as expected, as well. “You’re alive!” he called.

“Not for much longer!”

“Did you find the Arkenstone?”

“It’s here! But I _told_ you I would see it but not be able grab it!” Bilbo shouted at him, “And _neither_ of us will live to do so if we don’t move! Smaug’s coming!” He heard the thuds of the dragon’s footsteps, saw him approaching over the gold, and paled.

The other dwarves came barreling out of the passageway, weapons drawn and battle cries on their lips, and moved between the prince and hobbit and the dragon. Smaug roared and charged them, chest glowing with heat. **“You will _burn!”_**

The company turned and jumped from the path, sliding down on the pile of gold into another passage. Bilbo saw the light of the fire the dragon breathed, felt the heat of it wash over him and was stunned by the intensity, only remembering that they needed to run when he was pulled along by the dwarves. ‘I’m getting in touch with my inner Sherlock at the most inopportune times,’ he thought, ‘I want to study things that are trying to kill me!’

They all ducked into a side passage and waited until the echoes of Smaug’s rage died to even consider emerging. There was no sign of him in the vicinity. Dori voiced what many of them were thinking. “We’ve given him the slip,” he said in a voice a little above a whisper.

“No,” Dwalin replied, “he’s too cunning for that.”

“We’ll make for the western guardroom,” said Thorin, “There may be a way out.”

“It’s too high,” Balin responded, “There’s no chance that way.”

“And the exit was sealed by a rockfall,” Bilbo whispered, “Your kin tried while Smaug was taking the mountain. Their bodies are entombed there.”

Thorin turned to him. “Your magic picture told you this?” When Bilbo nodded, he asked, “Then where do we go?”

“Lure him to the forges,” the hobbit responded, “Use his fire to relight them, melt the gold there, then get him to go to the Gallery of the Kings. We can break open the mold while the gold is still liquid, try to drown him in it. It won’t kill him, but it _will_ drive him from the mountain.” Some of the dwarves muttered amongst themselves, but agreed to go along with it when the hobbit asked, “Do you have a better plan?”

Quietly, the group creeped across the bridge. As Bilbo remembered, a coin fell free from Smaug’s underbelly, landed with seemingly deafening clangor in the silence of the mountain. When everyone looked at him, he pointed up to the dragon, then frantically gestured for everyone to keep moving. When he gave them another signal, they split up and gave up on stealth.

Smaug heard them and circled back around. **“Flee, flee!”** he growled, **“Run for your lives! There is nowhere to hide.”**

He made to attack Bilbo, Thorin, and Balin, but he turned away at Dori, Ori, and Bombur’s battle cries. They rushed on another bridge, yelling to distract the dragon from his original targets. The dragon lunged toward them, but the dwarves turned and ran again. Though slower than the dragon, they could fit in smaller spaces.

As Smaug chases the second group of dwarves, the first group continued across the bridge. Suddenly the third group, Dwalin and Nori, ran across yet another bridge and yelled to distract Smaug again, baiting him away. “Hey you!” Dwalin roared, “Here!”

Smaug turned and jumped at them, landing heavily on the bridge. The dwarves ran off the bridge and into a tunnel just before the dragon’s clawed forelimb landed where they had been. The fourth group, Glóin and Bifur, used Dwalin and Nori’s distraction as a chance to run across a bridge and round a corner, getting out of the direct line of fire. The dragon inhaled, chest heating, and breathed a great gout of flame after them that filled the space between the layers of stone. Even though it was not a direct shot, the sheer heat of the dragon fire caused the stone beneath the two dwarves to glow fiercely, cracking and groaning as it expanded, and made them jump from foot to foot to prevent themselves from being burned. They reached a cliff and leaped into the air, landing in and sliding down large ore troughs. They shot out of those and landed in the hanging buckets of the conveyor, previously used in conjunction with the troughs to get raw ore down to the forges for refinement.

Meanwhile, Balin, Thorin, and Bilbo sprinted through a large hallway. Balin and Bilbo turned into a side tunnel, but Thorin continued forward past it. “It’s this way!” Balin called after the prince, “This way! Come on!”

Thorin seemed not to have heard, so Bilbo called out to him. “Thorin!”

Thorin turned at last and began to backtrack, but stopped suddenly. The hobbit and other dwarf whipped around to see Smaug at the end of the hallway. Thorin yelled to the hobbit, “Follow Balin!”

“Thorin!”

“Come on!” Balin tugged Bilbo into the side tunnel just as Smaug’s chest began to glow with his internal fire. He unleashed the blaze, which came roaring down the hall toward them. Thorin saw it coming and ran the opposite direction, jumping into a deep pit to avoid the flames. He caught hold of a chain with a bucket at the end of it, and it began a much slower, controlled descent – just as Smaug leaped into the pit after him. The dragon clawed his way down the pit, smashing through a bridge and snapping at Thorin on the chain.

Dwalin sprinted up to the mouth of the pit and shouted for his prince. He smashed his axe into the pulley system for the chain and bucket Thorin was holding on to, and the bucket jerked to a stop, then reversed direction. Thorin nearly flew upward, narrowly missing the dragon’s head and spiked. Smaug turned to follow and managed to grab the end of Thorin’s chain with his teeth, stopping the dwarf’s ascent. He pulled down, and unbeknownst to him, the machinery holding the chain broke free from the lip of the pit. His chain slackening, Thorin fell and landed right on the tip of Smaug’s maw. He shifted to stand on the dragon’s top lip when he growled and opened his mouth, fire rising up his neck and illuminating his throat. Smaug lunged to snap the prince up, but Thorin leaped to one side to grab hold of another elevator. The dragon turned for another attempt, but the falling machinery hit him then, stunning him briefly.

Nori, joining Dwalin at the top of the pit, hit another machine, and its gears spun rapidly with a whining grind, pulling Thorin’s elevator rapidly upward. Smaug roared his fury and unleashed another blaze straight up the pit after the dwarf. Thorin managed to reach the top and grabbed Nori’s outstretched hand, pulling himself away from the ledge just as the dragon’s fire went billowing past them.“Go!” the dwarf shouted, “Go!”

The two dwarves ran through the narrow slits in the metal grating separating them from the forges to join Bilbo and the other dwarves. The furnaces in front of them were still and silent, cold as the stone around them. The chill hung in the air; it was likely to Bilbo that the heat of them had previously been used to keep warm the whole of Erebor.

The dwarves all turned to Bilbo. “Bait him,” said the hobbit, gesturing to the pit that the dragon was still climbing back out of, “Insult him, call him names. Get him to breathe his fire.”

“With pleasure,” said the prince, striding back to the grating to call to the dragon, “I did not look to see you so easily outwitted!”

Smaug’s claws emerged on the far side of the pit, grabbing hold of the rock. His body followed them up, and Bilbo took a moment to admire the dragon’s sleek profile. A honed weapon, a killing machine.

Meanwhile, Thorin continued taunting him, “You have grown _slow_ , and _fat_ , in your dotage.” When the dragon turned to narrow his eyes at the dwarf prince, growling, he added, with a certain vicious glee, _“Slug.”_

Smaug snarled and jumped to the near side of the pit, and Bilbo yelled for the others to take cover behind the pillars of the grating. They rushed to do so, just as the dragon unleashed his flame. The heat was incredible; Bilbo began dripping with sweat from that alone, and felt the fire lick at his arms. Fortunately, the fire blew past the pillars and reached all the way into the furnaces, which began to glow with renewed heat. One by one, they awoke and belched smoke and fire. Smaug growled in anger and confusion.

The dwarves and hobbit bolted away from the pillars as Smaug began slamming his bulk against them, fighting to get through to his prey. The metal was immensely strong, but it was not built to withstand a dragon. It began to bend under Smaug’s tremendous weight and strength.

“Bombur!” Thorin yelled over the roaring fire and groaning metal, “Get those bellows working. Go!”

The fat dwarf ran and leaped onto a chain next to one of the forges. The chain was yanked down by his weight, turning a series of gears. The bellows compressed and sent a blast of air into the furnace, the fires turning briefly blue as they intensified.

Thorin turned away once he was sure Bombur had done as he asked, and saw the latticework continuing to bend under the dragon’s assault. “Bilbo!” he called, but the hobbit was already moving into position at the top of the stairs, next to the lever. He waved a hand in signal, and received one in return, before running through the forges with the other dwarves as the grating began to give way. The prince moved to Balin. “Balin,” he asked, trying to remain calm in the face of the madness the hobbit’s plan brought them to, “can you still mix a flash-flame?”

“Aye,” the elder dwarf responded, “It’ll only take a jiffy.” He grabbed some of the other dwarves to help him and raced for a side hall. “Come on!”

As they ran off, Dwalin looked to the grating, which was dangerously bent. “We don’t have a jiffy,” he hissed, hand tightening on his weapon.

Under the force of Smaug’s onslaught, the latticework finally gave in and fell away, admitting the dragon to the forge. He paused and looked around, hissing, chest alight with unreleased flame. Bilbo wasn’t sure if he’d been spotted, but the dragon began moving toward him anyway, scanning the room for the dwarves. Smaug continued forward, climbing past the smelters, then stopped abruptly and turned to look at Thorin standing there. Smaug let out a low, animal growl.

“Now!” the dwarf prince yelled, and Bilbo jumped for the handle on the lever, pulling as hard as he could just as Smaug lunged for Thorin. Huge jets of water burst forth from the carved faces in the wall behind Bilbo and slammed into the dragon, knocking him off balance and forcing him up against one of the smelters. The sheer volume of water quenched his fire, turning into clouds of superheated steam in the process. Roaring in rage and confusion, Smaug flapped into the air to try and evade. The jets of water slowed and began turning a watermill, making the conveyor system jerk to life. Some of the buckets were still filled with unused, unrefined ore.

Bombur was still working the bellows, keeping the fire superhot. Bilbo could see from his position that the solid impure gold had begun to melt once more inside the smelters.

Smaug recovered from his confusion, reoriented himself, and began making for the dwarf prince again. Above him, Glóin and Bifur arrived in the forges at last on the bucket conveyor. As Bilbo regained his feet, Smaug moved past his perch, and the hobbit had to look away as one of Balin’s flash-flares exploded against the side of the dragon’ head. However, Smaug did not seem to be at all phased by them and continued on his course. Above him, though, Glóin used his axe to sever the cable of the conveyor belt below, dropping tons of rock on the dragon and slamming him to the ground, roaring.

The gold in the smelters was completely melted. Thorin ran for the nearest one and pulled the chain to open the sluice gate, the molten gold flowing out and through troughs built into the ground. One after another, the rest of the smelters followed suit.

Tangled in the cables of the conveyor belt, Smaug thrashed about and lifted himself up off the floor in an attempt to get free, hitting the conveyor belt Glóin and Bifur are in, breaking the cable and knocking the second conveyor to the floor. The dwarves tucked and rolled, and landed on the ground bumped and bruised but otherwise unhurt. Beneath the dragon, rivers of molten gold flow through the troughs.

Thorin turned and began to run, shouting back at the other dwarves, “Lead him to the Gallery of the Kings!”

As Smaug fought with the cables, one of the heavy metal buckets tangled on him broke free and went flying toward Bilbo at the top of the stairs. The hobbit ducked under its arc, and the bucket missed him by an inch but took large chunks out of the wall behind him.

Thorin grabbed a wheelbarrow and pushed it in front of him as he ran, letting out a battle cry as he dodged the convulsing dragon. Smaug’s tail smashed into the base of the tower, cracking it and making Bilbo wobble.

Thorin threw the wheelbarrow into a stream of gold and leaped into it. It stayed afloat on the gold and carried him along. At last, Smaug tore the cables free, and circled around to search for the dwarves once more. He spotted the dwarf prince just as his wheelbarrow passed through the junction where all the troughs joined up before leaving the forge. Before he could get to the dwarf, the prince went under the small arch, just as the tower over it collapsed. Bilbo fell and rolled as he hit the ground, minimizing damage, but the impact still stunned him.

“Keep going, Bilbo!” the prince shouted, “Run!”

Bilbo regained his feet and took off running with Smaug in pursuit, leaping onto a long stone ramp and using it as a slide before the dragon could grab him. Smaug fights to follow him, demolishing much of the machinery in his way. The hobbit managed to keep ahead of the dragon and sprinted through a doorway, entering a massive hall adorned with banners hundreds of feet tall.

The Gallery of the Kings.

Smaug burst through the pillars overhead, the tapestries falling away as he roared. Bilbo ran to evade the falling stone, but was caught beneath the cloth of a falling banner and knocked to the floor. He heard the clangs of the crossbars hitting the ground and was grateful he hadn’t been crushed by one.

Smaug glided to the floor and turned back to shout, **“You think you could deceive me, _Barrel-rider_?!”**

Bilbo peeked out from the edge of the banner, as Smaug lifted his tail to whip it back, turning more fully to face him.

 **“You have come from Laketown,”** the dragon hissed, **“This is some sordid scheme hatched between these filthy dwarves and those miserable tub-trading Lakemen! Those _sniveling cowards_ with their _longbows_ and _Black Arrows!_ ” **Smaug was talking to himself, and his voice broke in both anger and fear at the last two words but rapidly regained its ferocity. **“Perhaps it is time I paid them a _visit_.” ** The dragon turned to go.

“Oh, no,” Bilbo gasped, and scrambled out from under the banner to yell at the dragon’s retreating back, “This isn’t their fault! Wait! You cannot go to Laketown.”

Hearing that, Smaug paused, humming, then turned back toward Bilbo once again, who had run after him. **“You _care_ about them, do you?”** he asked, snaking in close, **“ _Good._ Then you can watch them _die_.” ** Smaug turned once again and headed off down the hall, aiming for the doorway to the mountain.

“Here!” Thorin bellowed when he caught sight of the dragon, “you witless worm!” He was standing atop the massive mold into which the gold had poured.

Smaug stopped in his tracks, growling low and narrowing his eyes in anger. He twisted back to look at the dwarf prince. **“ _You._ ”**

“I am taking back what you stole.”

 **“You will take _nothing_ from me, Dwarf,”** said the dragon, padding back along the hall toward him, voice echoing off the walls, **“I _laid low_ your warriors of old. I instilled _terror_ in the hearts of men. _I_ am _King_ under the _Mountain_.” ** He reached Thorin and lifted his head to the prince’s level. Bilbo looked on from an adjoining hall, hovering close to one of the pillars dividing them.

“This is _not your kingdom_ ,” the dwarf shot back, “These are dwarf lands, this is dwarf gold! And we will have our _revenge_.”

Bilbo knew that, unseen by Smaug, there were chains attached to various points on the back of the stone mold Thorin was standing on, and the other dwarrows had taken them up, waiting for a signal from their leader. As the dwarf spoke, Smaug’s chest and neck heated, and Thorin reached up toward a rope above him. He yelled something in Khuzdul, the signal the others had been waiting for. They pulled on the chains, and the pins in the mold jerked free of their slots, releasing the metal and chain bands that held the stone in place. Smaug reared back in confusion as the stone fell away, revealing a massive statue of a dwarf king, made entirely out of gold. Thorin swung away on a chain to escape the falling rocks. Smaug inched closer to the massive golden statue, even larger than him, in awe and desire, his jaws parting with greed.

Bilbo began backing away, just as the gold around the statue’s eyes warped and then popped. The gold in the statue had not yet fully solidified, and the entire thing began collapsing. Smaug roared in anger and scrambled backward to escape the wave of gold. Not fast enough – the gold hit him, and the weight of it knocked him off his feet. As he roared his fury, he was entirely covered and drowned in the gold, which filled the section of the hall in a pool many feet deep.

The gold settled quickly, with no sign of Smaug emerging. The dwarves began to smile in joy, but suddenly, the surface of the golden lake exploded as Smaug forced himself out. The dragon was gilded with the still-liquid metal, and unbalanced by its weight. **“Revenge?!”** he roared, stumbling for the exit and trying to right himself, **“ _Revenge?! I_ will show you _REVENGE!_ ” **As the dwarves and Bilbo looked on in shock and horror, the dragon tore down the hallway to exit the mountain.

Night had fallen beyond Erebor. The mouth of the mountain had been blocked up with debris long ago, but the Smaug burst through it with ease, roaring and throwing all his weight behind it. He flapped his wings and barely managed to take off into the sky, spinning and causing the remaining gold on him to fall off in a rain of metal. Now unencumbered, he dropped into a glide, flapping over the remains of Dale and aiming for Laketown. **“I am _fire_ ,” **he rumbled, **“I am... _death._ ”**

Bilbo looked on helplessly as the dragon shrank into the distance. “The moment of truth,” he whispered to himself, “Now it’s your turn, Lestrade. I hope you’re ready.”


	3. Heretic, Hero

Bells rang out in Laketown despite the late hour, and people frantically loaded their few possessions into their boats. Erebor was awash with golden light in the distance, a clear sign to the townspeople. Tauriel watched the sky ominously, the sounds of Smaug’s growls and wingbeats clearly audible to her elven ears. The dragon drew even closer, and then arrived with frightening speed, his shadow passing over the moonlit town and causing a fresh wave of panic.

Tauriel reentered Bard’s house, saying, “We have no time. We must leave!” As the dwarves gathered up their gear, she snatched up some extra layers and wrapped them around Tilda’s shoulders to keep her warm in the early winter chill.

“We’re not leaving,” Bain insisted, “Not without our father.”

“If you stay here, your sisters will _die_ ,” the Elf responded, “Is that what your father would want?”

* * *

 Bard, meanwhile, was still trapped in the prison, all the guards gone in fear of the dragon. He clutched at the cell bars, not bothering to shout for them. Instead, he waited.

At last, he saw his foe: Smaug, limned in moonlight and flying high above the town, circling around for another pass. The archer turned to start stripping the bed to make a rope.

* * *

Tauriel led the dwarves and Bard’s family down below the house, where their boat waited for them. “Quickly now!” she called, taking position at the prow, “Hurry!” They set off down the canal, poling the boat through the floating chunks of ice. The dragon swooped low overhead, close enough that they all ducked automatically, and the townspeople around them screamed.

Smaug soared high above and away from Laketown, then turned and dove steeply, building up fire in his chest. As he passed over the town, he breathed the fire out in a line all the way across part of the town. People screamed in panic, and many died in the inferno. He continued making passes and leaving lines of flame and burning homes in his wake.

* * *

“Look out!”

The Master’s boat collided with Tauriel’s, upsetting everyone and everything on them. They managed to right themselves and push apart, but some of the Master’s treasure spilled over the edge into the water. “My gold,” he cried when he noticed, “my _gold_!”

“We’re carrying too much weight,” said Alfrid, looking over their costly cargo, “We need to dump something!”

While he looked to the pile of treasure, the Master looked to him. “Quite right, Alfrid,” he said pleasantly, and then pushed him overboard, just as a cloth loop fell from above. Bard’s timing had been dead on; the cloth rope caught the Master by his throat. The other end was tied to his cell bars, already in position to pull them free of the prison. At the front of the boat, Braga hadn’t noticed the Master’s predicament and called for the pole men to move them faster.

As the boat pulled ahead, the rope loops pulled the Master back, but then he became stuck against the boat’s rear post. As the rope drew taut around his neck, he began to gag and choke, but before it could kill him, the wall of Bard’s prison yielded first. The rope construction tore out entire side of the cell, and Bard himself escaped, climbing up to the roof. As Smaug flew overhead, breathing more fire, Bard broke through the window to the guardroom and grabbed a bow and quiver, feeling the bowstring. He punched out some of the shingles in the roof and clamber out onto it again, where he had a good vantage point for Smaug’ latest pass. He ducked low as Smaug flew by barely a meter overhead – and spotted the missing scale, the one gap in his armor. When the dragon passed him by, Bard began running across the rooftops, heading toward the bell tower, the tallest remaining building in the town.

Bard thundered up the winding steps of the bell tower, mindful of his bow. This was no gun that could survive bangs and blows; if the wood splintered or the string snapped, he was doomed. Once at the top, he pulled all the arrows out of his quiver, letting it fall away, and looked out at the sky. In the distance, Smaug dove for another pass. As he soared by the bell tower, Bard leaned out at an awkward angle and shot an arrow at him, aiming for the missing scale, but it missed, reflected off of Smaug’s scales, and spun away into the night.

The swinging and tolling of the bell was incredibly distracting, so the archer pulled out his dagger and cut’s the bell’s rope, silencing it, before climbing up onto the railing to fire again. Like the first, it collided with the dragon – this time closer to the fatal gap – but tumbled away without doing any damage at all.

* * *

In the canals below, Bain noticed his father at the top of the tower. “Da!” he cried, drawing the others’ attention as well. His siblings cried out for their father, too, but he was too far away to hear. As they watched, Bard shot another arrow at the dragon. It hit perilously close to its target but missed just the same.

“He hit it!” Kíli shouted, “He hit the dragon!”

“No...” the elf responded.

“He did!” insisted the dwarf, “He hit his mark, I saw!”

It was not Bard’s aim that Tauriel doubted. “His arrows cannot pierce its hide,” she responded, “I fear nothing will.”

Bain looked down, thinking, then up again and noticed the statue of the Master, and below it, the boat where he’d hidden the Black Arrow. Bain’s face hardened with determination, and as their boat passed under a hanging hook, Bain leaped up to grab it, swinging clear of the boat. The others grabbed at him and miss, and called after him, demanding explanation. The hook swung him around to the dock, and the instant he got his feet under him, he ran for the Arrow.

“Leave him!” Tauriel called, praying to Eru to give him all the luck in Arda, “We cannot go back!”

_“Bain!”_

* * *

At the top of the tower, Bard turned to reach for his arrows, only to find one left. He hesitated in fear – his shots had come within centimeters of hitting the mark - then grabbed it anyway and shot at Smaug. This time, Smaug passed so close to the tower that the wind knocked the archer over and rattled the structure, wood creaking ominously. Smaug roared as he began to circle, searching for the source of the irritation.

Footsteps pulled the man from his state of bowman’s Zen, Bain appearing at the top of the bell tower and shocking Bard. He had been so focused on slaying the dragon with what he had that he had forgotten his son. “Bain?!” he said, “What are you doing?! Why didn’t you leave?! You were supposed to leave!”

“I came to help you,” the boy insisted.

“No! Nothing can stop him now!”

“This might.” He pulled the Black Arrow up so the man could see it. Bard sighed in relief, then cupped his son’s face.

“Bain - you go back. You get out of here now!” Bard tensed, hearing the wingbeats over the crackling of the fire, and grabbed his son by the upper arms, pulling him in close and shielding him with his body as the dragon took off the roof of the tower. The boy held tight to the Black Arrow and his father as the stairs fell away under him, the man pulling them both up with all his strength.

Smaug landed close by in the town, crushing already burning buildings underneath his bulk. **“Who are _you_ that would stand against _me?!_ ” **the dragon demanded, turning to look at the archer.

Bard stood tall before the creature, then grabbed his bow, only to find that it had been broken in half when Smaug smashed into the tower. He had been hoping against hope that it would stay whole, picked the strongest wood he could find, but it still could not stand up to the force of a dragon.

**“Now that _is_ a pity. What will you do now, _Bow Man?_ You are forsaken. No help will come.”**

Bard looked around frantically, but there is nothing to help him. Smaug began walking toward him through the field of fire, crushing the buildings beneath him. Looking at the tower, Smaug growled and continued to speak to Bard. **“Is that _your_ child? You cannot save him from the fire. He will _burn_!”**

‘Not if I can help it.’ He knew just what to do and got right to it, firmly embedding the two broken halves of his bow into the remaining posts of the bell tower, with the bowstring taut between them. He put the Black Arrow to the bowstring, and laid the front end of the Black Arrow on the shoulder of his son, who stood as the new center of the bow, facing Bard. Bain panted in fear, listening to Smaug approaching from behind but unable to turn back and see him. “Stay still, son,” said Bard, in his gentlest voice, “Stay still.”

 **“Tell me, _wretch_ ,”** the dragon demanded, **“How now shall _you_ challenge _me_?!” ** He lifted his head – a mistake that would prove to be his undoing, for it clearly revealed the missing scale to the archer, and now he had a head-on shot.  A small smile pulled his lips up.

‘And now, the moment of truth,’ Bard thought, ignoring the dragon’s words as he charged. Bain looked over his shoulder at the dragon, but his father called him back, saying, “Bain! Look at me. You look at me.” He didn’t dare draw the Arrow back any further, mindful of its weight and the tensile strength of the string. “A little to your left.”

Bain did as he said, moving the tip of the arrow to the right, toward the spot where Bard noticed the missing scale on Smaug.

“That’s it,” Bard soothed, and let the Black Arrow fly. Neither of them saw it hit, but it was clear that it had. Smaug roared in pain and fear and lost control, body convulsing like an alligator’s death roll. Bard grabbed Bain when the dragon side-swiped the tower, holding the boy close as they fell with the tower into the water. The cushion of the water saved them as Smaug rolled and slid through the remains of the town, destroying everything in his path, before at last getting his wings under him. He struggled to gain altitude, limbs uncoordinated, gasping and hacking in pain. With massive effort, he managed to get a few hundred feet up, but no further before his body gave out. The dragon fell back to the city, but did one unintentional good deed for the townsfolk, landing directly on the Master’s boat and crushing it, killing everyone on board.

* * *

Dawn came again, as it always did and, as far as anyone knew, always would. On the banks of the Long Lake, refugees were heaving themselves from the water and searching though wreckage from Laketown. People still screamed and cried as they had hours before, looking through the bodies of the dead for people they knew. Some of the debris from the town still burned.

Bard heard his other children calling for him, but for now he focused on reviving Bain. It had been a hard swim for so young a boy, but he had borne it bravely even if he had lost consciousness and almost drowned as his energy faded. At last, he came around, and the man searched for an intact waterskin. There was one next to an overturned boat that was scuffed but unbroken, still plugged tight and half-filled. “That was very bravely done, Bain,” he said as the boy drank as much as he could without coughing or throwing up, “I’m so very proud of you.”

Bain plugged the waterskin, then hugged his father, burying his face in the man’s chest. “ _I was so scared_ ,” he muffled out, like it was some kind of shameful secret.

“So was I,” Bard admitted, making the boy look up, “I was afraid that Smaug was going to kill us, that you were going to die right before my eyes and there would be nothing I could do to save you. But bravery isn’t about not being scared. It’s about going forward, being scared of something and doing it anyway.”

Bain swallowed, then nodded resolutely.

“Now, let’s go find your sisters.” Bard led his son through the wreckage on the shore, following the sounds of Alfrid’s shouts, remembering that his daughters would be nearby.

“You’re a sneak-thief, more like,” a woman shouted, the same one who had spoken in the movie, he recalled, “I’ll be dead, before I answer to the likes of you!”

As she turned away to help others, Alfrid grabbed her. “Maybe that can be arranged!” he snarled, and raised his hand to strike her.

Bard’s hand shot out grab his wrist and stop him. He leaned in close and growled, “I wouldn’t go turning on your own, Alfrid. Not now!” He spun the other man around and away, and Bain stuck out his foot trip him. Sigrid and Tilda came running out of the crowd to their father, and he swept them up in his arms, glad that they were alive and unharmed. “It’s all right now. We’re going to be all right.”

“It was Bard! He killed the dragon!”

Percy, who used to check the papers at Laketown’s gates, pushed through the crowd to continue, “I saw it with my own eyes. He brought the beast down. He shot him dead, with a Black Arrow!”

The refugees all gathered close, cheering and patting his shoulders and calling, “You saved us all! Thank you, bless you!”

Even though he was expecting it, Bard was still startled when Alfrid suddenly appeared and raised his arm, cheering loudly for him. “ALL HAIL - TO THE DRAGONSLAYER! ALL HAIL - KING BARD!” The people grew silent around them, and Bard yanked his hand away from the Master’s patsy. Alfrid, still with his hand up in the air, spoke to the crowd.  “I have said it many times - This is a man of noble stock. A born leader!”

“Do not call me that!” Bard snapped back, “I’m not the master of this town.” He looked around as if searching faces, all the while knowing that the man’s corpse was crushed under the dragon’s. “ _Where is he?! Where’s the Master!_?”

“Halfway down the Anduin, with all our coin, I don’t doubt. You would know!” The woman pointed at Alfrid, who looked scared. “You helped him empty the treasury.”

“No - I tried to stop him.”Alfrid raised his voice and addressed all the people, scared and pleadingly. The people began to shout at him angrily, calling him a traitor and a mongrel. Alfrid ducked behind Bard, keeping him between himself and the woman. “I pleaded. I pleaded. I said, ’Master - NO!’” As the people continued to hurl abuse at him, Alfrid’s look of terror intensified. “Think of the children.” Alfrid grabbed Tilda and pulled her in front of him. “Will nobody think of the children?!”

The girl stomped angrily on Alfrid’s foot, forcing him to let go of her.

“To the tree with you!” one of the men called, and the rest agreed, several of them grabbing Alfrid and lifting him off the ground, preparing to hang him with a rope. He screamed with fear.

Bard stepped in at last and stopped the people. “Enough! Let him go! Let him go!” The people quieted and let Alfrid fall to the ground with a thud. Bard turned about, addressing them all. “Look around you! Have you not had your fill of death?”

Alfrid stood, putting a hand on Bard’s shoulder to steady himself. “Aye.”

Bard shifted out of his grip and let him fall again. “Winter is upon us! We must look to our own, to the sick and the helpless. Those who can stand, tend to the wounded. And those who have strength left - follow me. We must salvage what we can.” Bard turned to go.

“What then? What do we do then?”

“We find shelter.”

The townspeople looked at one another, then moved to follow him as he walked away.

* * *

Bilbo heard the dwarves coming before he saw them, heard their calls echoing through the massive hall. “Hello! Bombur? Bifur? _Anybody_?” Bofur called, voice echoing well in advance of their passage.

The hobbit raced up to meet them, mindful to memorize the path. “WAIT! _WAIT!_ ” he shouted.

“It’s Bilbo!” said Óin,” He’s alive!”

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” He skidded to a halt in front of them in a corridor. “You need to leave. We _all_ need to leave.”

“We only just got here?!” Bofur protested.

“I have tried talking to him,” the hobbit went on, “but he won’t listen.”

“What do you mean, laddie?”

“ _THORIN_ ,” he said, his voice unexpectedly loud, making the dwarves jump. He lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “Thorin. Thorin. He’s been out there for days. He doesn’t sleep. He barely eats. He’s not been himself - not at all. It’s this - It’s this place. I think a sickness lies on it.”

As Bilbo spoke, Fíli peered past him and saw something that caused him to wrinkle his face in consternation.

Kíli was paying attention, at least; there was hope for him. Perhaps a dwarf in love could not be affected? “Sickness?” he asked, “What kind of sickness?”

His brother less so. Fíli walked past the group and headed further down into Erebor, looking down towards the hoard. Bilbo and the others ran after him, calling his name and trying to stop him. As they continued heading down, the light reflecting off the gold began to appear on the walls. They rounded a corner, and stopped short at the sight of the sea of gold, Smaug’s treasure, heaped so high over the floor of the cavern that the ground could not be seen. As they stared, Thorin paced slowly out of a doorway, dressed in fine robes and jewelry. Thorin muttered softly to himself, “Gold - gold beyond measure. Beyond sorrow… and grief.” He looked up at them, seeming strange, almost possessed, and the dwarves looked back at him in surprise. Bilbo swallowed thickly, feeling acutely the weight of the Arkenstone concealed in his coat.

“Behold - the great treasure hoard of Thrór,” he said to them, and suddenly flung something high into the air to where the dwarves stood on the stairwell landing. Fíli caught it. It was a blood-red ruby the size of a Man’s fist. “Welcome, my sister-sons, to the kingdom of Erebor.” He spread his arms out in a grand gesture as if to encompass all the gold and gather it into himself.

* * *

Bilbo couldn’t bear to watch as Thorin started to drive the other dwarves into the ground, searching for the Arkenstone. He had lied to the dwarf time and again, saying that he didn’t know where it was – it had been buried when Smaug chased him, who knows how deep, and it would take forever to find it. He walked out onto the ramparts of the front gates, near the hole Smaug made in the wall. He paced back and forth for a while, struggling internally. Then, after looking around to see that no one was watching or anywhere nearby, he sat down on a rock, remembering.

Once more checking than no one was watching, he reached into his tunic and pulled out the Arkenstone. He stared at it as it glowed with patterns of nebulae and stars within, rubbing his thumb over its smooth surface, and sighed.

* * *

At the Laketown camp, the people packed what supplies they could find and got ready to leave. “Take only what you need,” Bard called to them, foregoing a change of his own clothes in favor of more food, “We have a long march ahead.”

“Where will you go?”

The Elf Legolas. The Man looked across the lake. “There is only one place.”

“The mountain,” said Alfrid, “You are a genius, sire. We can take refuge inside the mountain. It might smell a bit of dragon - The women can clean up. It will be safe and warm and dry, and full of stores, bedding, clothing... the odd bit of gold.”

“What gold is in that mountain is cursed with dragon-sickness,” the Man said firmly, “We will take only what was promised to us - only what we need to rebuild our lives.” Bard dumped a few shovels and the bundle of sticks he was packing into Alfrid’s hands and walked off to help elsewhere. “Make yourself useful, Alfrid,” he called over his shoulder.

“News of the death of Smaug will have spread through the lands,” said the Elf.

Bard stopped. “Aye.”

“Other will now look to the mountain - for its wealth, for its position.”

“What is it you know?” he asked, but he knew very well what was coming. He was already preparing himself for something to go wrong.

“Nothing for certain. It’s what I fear may come.” Legolas looked concerned, and gazed off into the distance at the Lonely Mountain.

* * *

Tauriel stopped to speak with the man who had slain the dragon, wanting to see him with her own eyes. Bard turned to her, and she saw recognition in his eyes. He knew her? “Molly?” he asked.

She drew back in surprise.

“John – Bilbo told me,” he said, in English, “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

Tauriel smiled in relief. “It’s good to see you,” she said, stepping forward to give him a friendly embrace. “No sign of Sherlock?” she asked when they parted.

The Man shook his head. “None at all,” he answered with a sigh, “and we could really use him here.”

“Agreed. Perhaps we just haven’t met him yet. Or maybe he hasn’t been born? What if he’s Frodo? Or Aragorn?”

Bard laughed and shook his head. “Him as Aragorn would be a nightmare,” he said, “Could you imagine him trying to be king and work at politics? He had far too sharp a tongue for that.”

“Agreed.”

Bard sighed. “I need to go.” He looked towards the people of Laketown. “Wish me luck leading this lot. I could barely keep control of Scotland Yard.”

“You’ll do fine,” said the Elf, and gave him another hug before moving to join Legolas. “You saw something out there,” she said to him.

“The Orc I pursued out of Laketown,” the blond responded, “I know who he is. Bolg - a spawn of Azog the Defiler. A Warg pack was waiting for him on the outskirts of Esgaroth. They fled into the north. These Orcs were different from the others. They wore a mark I had not seen for a long time. The mark of Gundabad.”

Tauriel stopped in false shock and turned to Legolas. “Gundabad?”

“An Orc-stronghold in the far north of the Misty Mountains.”

An Elf from Mirkwood rode up on a horse and addressed the Elf Prince in their native tongue. _“My Lord Legolas, I bring word from your Father. You are to return to him immediately.”_

He nodded and said, _“Come, Tauriel.”_

 _“My Lord,”_ the messenger said hesitantly, _“Tauriel is banished.”_

 _“Banished?”_ Legolas was surprised, but Tauriel was not. “You may tell my father: If there is no place for Tauriel, there is no place for me.”

 _“Tauriel, my king said to give you these words,”_ said the messenger, before switching over to hesitant, accented English, “I am moving as you said, and await your return from the stronghold.”

Tauriel nodded and turned away. Legolas strode after her and pulled a little ahead. “I ride north. Will you come with me?”

“To where?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“To Gundabad.”

The two Elves rode out of the Laketown camp on Legolas’s horse. Behind them, carrying their possessions and stretchers with their sick and injured, the townspeople began the long and arduous trek around the lake and toward Erebor.

* * *

In Erebor, Thorin gazed upon the throne, over which the Arkenstone had been inlaid before it was lost. He spoke to Balin, Dwalin, and Bilbo, who stood behind him. “It is here in these halls,” he whispered, “I know it.”

“We have searched and searched…” Dwalin began before he was cut off.

“Not well enough!” the prince hissed venomously.

“Thorin, we all would see the stone returned.”

“And yet, it is still not _FOUND!_ ” The sound of his voice echoed through the halls.

“Do you,” Balin began, “doubt the loyalty of anyone here?”

Thorin turned at his words and slowly walked toward Balin and Dwalin.

“The Arkenstone is the birthright of our people,” said the elder dwarf.

“It is the _King’s_ Jewel.” Thorin’s voice rose sharply into a shout. “AM I NOT THE _KING?!_ ”

As Thorin turned away, Balin, Dwalin, and Bilbo looked at one another, painfully uneasy.

“Know this,” said the prince, clad in all his finery, “If anyone should find it and withhold it from me, I will be _avenged_.”

As Thorin walked away, Bilbo gritted his teeth, then sought out Balin. The dwarf was in a quiet corner of what was once possibly a library, breathing deeply as if he had just been weeping. “Dragon-sickness,” he said as the hobbit approached, “I’ve seen it before. That look. That terrible _need_. It is a fierce and jealous love, Bilbo. It sent his grandfather mad.”

Bilbo stepped closer and swallowed. “I lied to him, Balin.” When the dwarf’s brows furrowed in confusion, he reached into his outer robe and pulled the Arkenstone out, its glow filling the space between them as he held it cupped in his hands. “I knew this would happen, the gold sickness. But… if I gave it to him… Would it help? Truly?”

“The stone crowns all,” said the elderly dwarf, reaching out with one hand to cover its light, “It is the summit of this great wealth, bestowing power upon he who bears it. Will it stay his madness? No, laddie. I fear it would make it worse. Perhaps it is best that it _remains_ lost.” He pushed it closer to the hobbit and raised his eyebrows as if to say, _Get the hint?_

Bilbo nodded and left Balin to his grief, moving to sit on a bench in a hall near some sort of mess hall, he guessed. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the acorn he took from Beorn’s garden, tensing with nervousness and hoping against hope. Thorin, walking in an adjoining hallway, saw the action. “What is that?!” the prince demanded, striding quickly over to him as the hobbit stood. “In your hand!”

“It-It’s nothing.”

“Show me,” he demanded.

“It…” He held it out, showed the prince the acorn. “I picked it up in Beorn’s garden.” He felt the air around the dwarf ease like it was a living thing.

“You’ve carried it all this way,” he said, sounding amazed.

“I’m gonna plant it in _my_ garden, in Bag End.”

His anger faded, and Thorin smiled fondly at Bilbo, proof that the noble dwarf was still in there somewhere. It made Bilbo all the more determined to save him, to make sure that he did not fall to Azog. If he could overcome the gold-sickness, he would be a good king. “That’s a poor prize to take back to the Shire,” he said.

“One day it’ll grow. And every time I look at it, I’ll remember.” He tucked it back into his outer robe, mindful of the Arkenstone. “Remember everything that happened, the good, the bad. And how lucky I am that I made it home.” They smiled at each other, and Bilbo gathered himself to speak, knowing it would do no good. “Thorin, I...”

As expected, Dwalin came up to interrupt. “Thorin, survivors from Laketown. They’re streaming into Dale. There’s hundreds of them.”

Thorin’s smile faded into a stern, uncompromising glare, the sickness closing in again like a living thing.  “Call everyone to the gate.” Thorin strode off in that direction, shouting, “To the gate! _NOW!_ ”

* * *

The citizens of Laketown trudged into the snow-covered ruins of Dale, weary from their long walk. They stared around at the ruins, the wreckage of playgrounds and markets, the charred and burned bodies left behind from Smaug’s first assault almost two hundred years previously.

“Come on, keep moving,” Bard called, helping support some of the infirm up a short flight of steps.

“Sire!” Alfrid shouted for him, “ _Sire!_ Up here!”

Bard looked up to see Alfrid on one of the city walls. Bard finished helping and moved to join him. “Look sire,” said the patsy, “the braziers are lit.”

Indeed, giant braziers stood on either side of the gates of Erebor, full of bright fire.

“So, the company of Thorin Oakenshield survived,” said the archer, sighing internally when he glimpsed the small form of Bilbo atop the wall by the door.

“ _Survived?_ ” asked Alfrid, “You mean there’s a bunch of dwarves in there with all that gold?”

“You shouldn’t worry, Alfrid,” he responded, “There’s gold enough in that mountain for all.” Bard walked away, thinking, ‘I can only hope Thorin will give it to us without a fight.’ He called to the other people, “Make camp here tonight. Find what shelter you can. Get some fires going.” To the other man, he said, “Alfrid, you take the night watch.”

As Alfrid looked sourly at Bard and stomped off, Bard looked back at the Mountain and waved a hand. Bilbo did the same. The hobbit had apparently found a mirror or something reflective, because he then flashed a short message in Morse code.

‘“Dragon sickness.” Because nothing in this God-forsaken world could ever be easy.’ He waved again in acknowledgement of the message. Bilbo did the same, and disappeared back into the mountain.

* * *

The dwarves worked through the night to block up the main gate that Smaug had broken through. They lowered rocks into place before the entrance by hand and with the help of ropes and pulleys. “I want this fortress made safe by sunup,” Thorin growled, setting a small boulder into place and rocking it a little to make sure it was stable, “This mountain was hard won; I will not see it taken again.”

Kíli was definitely immune to the gold sickness, and apparently more likely to protest. “The people of Laketown have _nothing_. They came to us in need. They have lost everything!”

“Do not tell _me_ what _they_ have lost,” the prince snarled at his nephew, “I know well enough their hardship. Those who have lived through dragonfire should rejoice. They have much to be grateful for.” He looked out at the city of Dale, where a number of fires were lit, flickering in the ruins. Then he turned back to the dwarves. “More stone!” he shouted, “BRING MORE STONE TO THE GATE!”

Bilbo looked on in despair as they built the barricade higher and higher.

* * *

Night fell in Dale, and passed slowly. By dawn, the people were up and moved through the ruins once more, the healthy tending to the wounded and seeking out any who had died during the night. Infants cried, their parents trying to soothe them. “These children are starving!” one mother whimpered, rocking her child, “We need food!”

“We won’t last three days!”

“Bard, we don’t have enough,” said Percy as Bard entered the ruined house.

“Do want you can, Percy,” he responded, handing over a container of water. He had sent some trustworthy men down to the river that flowed from the mountain to break the ice and haul up as much water as they could for boiling, so they had that aplenty, at least. “The children, the wounded, and the women come first.” Bard walked over to where Alfrid was supposed to have been standing guard. Alfrid had actually been napping, and he woke as Bard spoke. “Morning, Alfrid. What news from the night watch?”

“All quiet, sire, not much to report,” the man yawned, “Nothing gets past me.”

He got up to follow Bard outside, only to find that the archer stopped suddenly in the archway. “Except an army of Elves, it would seem.”

The courtyard – and indeed, much of the city – was packed full of Mirkwood Elves armored for war, standing in perfectly ordered lines. The people of Laketown emerged from some of their buildings and saw the Elves, hesitating. Bard walked down the steps and approached the Elves. Some of them turned and stepped aside, opening a path for him through their ranks, and closed the gap behind him. As he exited the ranks of Elves, Thranduil rode in on his elk, and all the Elves turned to face him.

“My lord Thranduil,” said Bard, “we did not look to see you here.”

“I heard you needed aid,” the Elf responded, and turned to look at the first of a number of wagons pulling up. All of them were loaded with food and drink for the refugees. The people of Laketown grinned and cheered, moving to unload the cart with the Elves’ help.

Bard approached Thranduil gratefully. “You have saved us! I do not how to thank you.”

The Elf smiled tightly. “Your gratitude is misplaced. I did not come on your behalf,” he responded, voice cold, “I came to reclaim something of mine.” Once the carts were unloaded and the provisions distributed, the Elven troops began marching out of Dale.

Bard ran to catch up to Thranduil. “Mycroft, wait!” he called in English, making the Elf King wheel his mount around to face him, before he switched back to the common tongue, “Please, wait! You would go to war over a handful of gems?”

“The heirlooms of my people are not lightly forsaken,” said Thranduil, following the script exactly.

“We are allies in this,” the Man said desperately, “My people also have a claim upon the riches in that mountain! Let me speak with Thorin!”

The Elf looked back at him. “You would try to reason with a dwarf?”

“To avoid war? Yes!”

* * *

In Erebor, Thorin strode quickly toward the blocked off gate, calling the other dwarves to him, “Come on.”

The rest of the company laid down their tools, picked up their weapons, and followed him up the stairs they laid in on the barricade, all the way to a platform at the top of the gate. It gave them an unobstructed view over the plain in front of the gate. From there, they saw the walls of Dale filled with Elves ready for war, but then there attention was brought closer to home. Bard rode up the path to the gate on a horse, and stopped in front of it. “Hail Thorin, son of Thráin!” he called, though he already seemed resigned, “We are glad to find you alive beyond hope.”

“Why do come to the gates of the King Under the Mountain armed for war?” the prince demanded.

“Why does the King Under the Mountain fence himself in?” the man responded, “Like a robber in his hold?”

“Perhaps it is because I am expecting to be robbed!”

“My lord,” the man insisted, “We have not come to rob you, but to seek fair settlement. Will you not speak with me?”

Thorin inclined his head, and stepped away from the platform and down the stairs. Bard swung down from his horse and crossed the bridge in front of the gate. As he approached the blockade, one of Erebor’s legendary ravens flew out of the opening above the gate and quickly winged away, cawing. There was a hole built into the blockade, and Thorin waited for him at the other side. “I’m listening.”

“On behalf of the people of Laketown,” said the man, knowing it would do no good but keeping to the script, “I ask that you honor your pledge. A share of the treasure so that they might rebuild their lives.”

“I will not treat with any man while an armed host lies before my door.”

“That armed host will attack this mountain if we do not come to terms.”

“And your threats do not sway me.”

“What of your conscience? Does it not tell you our cause is just?! My people offered you help,” Bard insisted, “And in return you brought upon them only ruin and death!”

“When did the men of Laketown come to our aid, but for the promise of rich reward?!”

“A bargain was struck!”

“A bargain?” the prince hissed, “What choice did we have but to barter our birthright for blankets and food? To ransom our future in exchange for our freedom?” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “You call that a fair trade? Tell me, Bard the Dragon-slayer, why should I honor such terms?”

“Because _you_ gave us _your word_. Does that mean nothing?”

Thorin turned away from the hole, disappearing from Bard’s view. The dwarf leaned back against the blockade, tired and weary. He looked up at the other dwarves and Bilbo, who stood in a semicircle around him. Bilbo pleaded silently with his eyes, but to no avail. Thorin shouted back to Bard, “Be gone, ere our arrows fly!”

Bard slapped the rock angrily, then remounted his horse and returned to Dale. The company watched him go from the top of the platform. “What _are_ you _doing_?!” the hobbit demanded, “You _cannot_ go to war.”

“This does not concern you.”

“ _Excuse_ me?! But just in case you haven’t noticed, there is an army of Elves out there. And not to mention several hundred angry fishermen.” As the other dwarrows turned to look at him, he stuttered a little. “W-We are in fact outnumbered.”

Thorin turned to look at Bilbo, smirking. “Not for much longer.”

“What does that mean?”

Thorin approached him. “It means Master Baggins, you should never underestimate dwarves.” He turned to the rest of the company. “We have reclaimed Erebor. Now we defend it!”

As Thorin walked slowly down the steps, Bilbo and Balin exchanged distressed looks before the elderly dwarf looked away.

* * *

Bard rode back to the gates of Dale, where Thranduil waited. “He will give us nothing,” the archer reported needlessly.

“Such a pity,” the Elf answered, “Still, you tried.”

Bard wheeled his horse around to look back toward the Mountain. As they watched, the dwarves dislodged the head of one of the massive stone statues. It fell and rolled through the moat, breaking the raised bridge to the gate and thus preventing any attackers from using the gates easily.

“It is fruitless to reason with them; they understand only one thing.” Thranduil drew his sword from its sheath and checked its edge. “We attack at dawn!” he said, turning his elk back toward the city, “Are you with us?”

Bard looked over his shoulder at Erebor.

* * *

In Dale, Bard and the Lakepeople collected and distributed the various weapons and armor stored there, dusty with disuse and covered in cobwebs. In Erebor, the dwarves did the same, suiting up for battle and checking their weapons. As Bilbo walked by, Thorin called out to him, holding something. “Master Baggins, come here!” He took a few steps closer, heavily armored footsteps clanking against the stone floor. “You are going to need this,” he said, “Put it on.”

Bilbo began removing his jacket.

“This vest is made of silver steel,” Thorin went on, “‘ _Mithril,’_ it was called by my forebears.” He held it up so that Bilbo could slip into it. “No blade can pierce it.”

Bilbo finished putting it on, tugging it down all the way, then looked at himself. The other dwarves watched, too. “I look absurd,” he said, “I’m not a warrior; I’m a Hobbit.”

“It is a gift. A token of our friendship. True friends are hard to come by.” Although he started off smiling at Bilbo, he looked toward the other dwarves and frowned, then grabbed Bilbo and pulled him away to an alcove where the other dwarves couldn’t hear him. “I have been blind. Now I begin to see. I am betrayed!”

“Betrayed?” the hobbit repeated.

“ _The Arkenstone_ ,” the prince hissed worriedly, the hobbit matching his expression but for different reasons, “One of them has taken it. One of them is false.”

“Thorin... the quest is fulfilled,” Bilbo began, “You’ve won the mountain. Is that not enough?”

Thorin did not seem to hear him. “Betrayed by my own kin.”

“No, eh... You-you made a promise... to the people of Laketown. Is-Is this treasure truly worth more than your honor? _Our_ honor, Thorin. I was also there, I gave my word.”

“For that I’m grateful,” said the dwarf, “It was nobly done. But the treasure in this mountain does not belong to the _people of Laketown_! This gold... is ours... and ours alone. By my life, I will not part with a single coin! Not...one...piece of it!”

Bilbo heard the echoes of Smaug’s voice in his ears, gazing at Thorin in fright. The dwarf was clearly mentally affected, more than he’d feared, and Bilbo stared at him as the other dwarves, armored for battle, walked between them.

* * *

In Dale, the people were preparing for war, sharpening swords and collecting arrows and other supplies. They jumped out of the way as Gandalf galloped into town on his horse, calling, “Let me through! Make way!” He dismounted in the main courtyard and looked surprised to see men drilling with swords, companies of Elves marching by on patrol.

Alfrid spotted him and began shouting, upset. “No, no, NO! Oi! You - pointy hat! Yes. You. We don’t want no tramps, beggars, nor vagabonds around here. We got enough trouble without the likes of you. Off you go! On your horse.”

“Who’s in charge here?!” the wizard demanded.

Bard heard him and walked over, saying, “Gandalf the Grey. It is an honor indeed.”

* * *

The wizard met with Bard and Thranduil in the latter’s tent. “You must set aside your petty grievances with the dwarves,” he said, “War is coming! The cesspits of Dol Guldur have been emptied. You’re ALL in mortal danger!”

“What are you talking about?” the Man asked after exchanging a look with the Elven King.

“I can see you know nothing of wizards,” said Thranduil, rising from his throne, “They are like winter thunder on a wild wind rolling in from a distance, breaking hard in alarm.” He poured Bard a mouthful of wine with a murmur to drink in small sips. “But sometimes,” he continued, “a storm is just a storm.”

“Not this time,” the Istari insisted, “Armies of Orcs are on the move. And these are fighters! They have been bred for war. Our enemy has summoned his full strength.”

“Why show his hand now?”

“Because we forced him! We forced him when the company of Thorin Oakenshield set out to reclaim their homeland. The dwarves were never meant to reach Erebor; Azog the Defiler was sent to kill them. His master seeks control of the mountain. Not just for the treasure within, but for where it lies, its strategic position.” As Gandalf talked, they left the tent and walked outside to a spot from where they could clearly see the gates of Erebor. “This is the gateway to reclaiming the lands of Angmar in the north. If that fell kingdom should rise again, Rivendell, Lórien, the Shire, even Gondor itself will fall!”

“These Orc armies you speak of, Mithrandir - Where are they?”

Gandalf was unable to answer, but that did not stop him. He confronted Thranduil, demanding, “Since when has my council counted for so little? What do you think I’m trying to do?!”

“I think you’re trying to save your dwarvish friends,” the Elf King responded, following the words that Bard was mouthing to him behind the wizard’s back, “And I admire your loyalty to them, but it does not dissuade me from my course. You started this, Mithrandir. You will forgive me if I finish it.” Thranduil exited the tent and called to one of the Elves, “Are the archers in position?”

“Yes my Lord,” was the response.

“Give the order. If anything moves on that mountain, kill it! The dwarves are out of time.”

* * *

Night fell quickly as winter drew closer. At the blocked off entrance to the mountain, Bilbo threw a rope over the edge and clambered hand-over-hand down the rope, slipping along the way. He scrambled across the moat on some rubble and ran toward Dale.

Unseen by any, out in the still-smoldering remains of Laketown, something _big_ began to stir. The barest whisper hissed through the ruins.

**“John…”**

* * *

Gandalf turned to Bard. “You, Bowman!” he called, “Do you agree with this? Is gold so important to you? Would you buy it with the blood of dwarves?!”

“It will not come to that,” said Bard. Like Thranduil, he was waiting. “This is a fight they cannot win.”

Bilbo appeared and addressed both of them, “That won’t stop them. You think the dwarves will surrender - They won’t. They will fight to the death to defend their own.” He was already reaching into his coat for the Arkenstone.

“Bilbo Baggins!” the wizard cried.

“John!” said Bard.

“Doctor Watson,” Thranduil acknowledged, sitting back in his chair.

“How goes it?” the hobbit asked, moving forward to lay the stone on the Elven King’s table.

“Everything is proceeding according to what Tauriel told me,” the Elf answered.

“And what I remember from the movies,” Bard added.

When he noticed Gandalf’s confused look, Bilbo said hurriedly, “Oh Gandalf, these are Mycroft Holmes,” he waved to Thranduil, then Bard, “and Greg Lestrade. They’re re-embodied like me, from the same world. We knew one another.”

“Ah,” said the wizard, “Then you all have a plan? You know about the army?”

“Not much of a plan,” the hobbit sighed, “We’re trying to keep as close to what we know as we can, so that way we actually know what’s coming. If we deviate too much, try to change too much, what we know might not do us any good.”

“Although,” Thranduil added, “it’s possible that this world will continue on its natural path even with our changes to its timeline. Of course, it’s also possible that the world has _already_ changed, deviated from its course and is forging a new path.”

“Thank you for that, Captain Sunshine.”

Bard snorted quietly, and looked away when Thranduil glared. “Will you be all right? Thorin… will not react well to this.” He waved at the Arkenstone, glowing benignly on the table.

“I’m prepared for what’s coming,” Bilbo answered.

Gandalf left the Man and Elf to a quiet conference and led the hobbit through Dale. “Rest up tonight,” he said, “You must be ready for tomorrow.” He stopped and sighed. “I certainly hope you know what you’re doing, Bilbo.”

“So do I,” the hobbit admitted.

“Don’t underestimate the evil of gold, gold over which a serpent has long brooded. Dragon sickness seeps into the hearts of all who come near this mountain,” the wizard warned, then looked at Bilbo appraisingly. “Almost all,” he corrected. He spotted Alfrid nearby and called, “You there! Find this Hobbit a bed, and fill his belly with hot food. He has earned it.”

Alfrid grudgingly came over and led Bilbo away, cursing as a group of people walked in front of him and pushing his way between them.

* * *

In the darkness, slowly, laboriously, that same immense something rolled over and began dragging itself free of the still-smoldering wreckage of Esgaroth.

* * *

Early the next morning, the legions of Elves and Men, armed for battle, stood before the Door in the Mountain. The dwarves, also prepared, watched them all from above the gate blockade.

Thranduil and Bard rode together to the front of the armies, the Elves twisting expertly out of the way in front of them and shifting back into place behind. The two approached their side of the broken bridge over the moat. From above the blockade, Thorin drew a bow and shot an arrow at the ground directly in front of Thranduil and Bard. It skipped off the stone, and they halted.

“I will put the next one between your eyes!” the dwarf warned.

Thorin strung an arrow on his bow again, and the dwarves on the wall jeered and shook their weapons. Thranduil stared at Thorin levelly, then tilted his head. Instantly, several rows of Elves near the front of the army pulled out their bows, nocked their arrows, and aimed for the dwarves, all in one fluid motion. The dwarves’ cheering cut off abruptly as all but Thorin ducked behind the ramparts. After holding position for a few seconds, Thranduil lifted a hand, and the Elves put away their arrows, eerily in sync. Thorin still had his bow drawn, though.

“We’ve come to tell you,” said the Elven King, “payment of your debt has been offered... and accepted.”

“What payment?” the prince demanded, “I gave you nothing! You have nothing!”

Thranduil raised his eyebrows and looked at Bard. “We have _this_ ,” said the man, reaching into his coat and pulling out the Arkenstone, holding it above his head. Thorin lowered his bow, mouth open and eyes wide.

“They have the Arkenstone,” Kíli gasped, “Thieves! How came you by the heirloom of our house? That stone belongs to the king!”

“And the king may have it, in our good will,” he answered, tucking the Arkenstone back into his robe, “But first he must honor his word.”

Thorin whispered to himself, and the dwarves near him could hear him say, “They are taking us for fools. This is a _ruse_ , a filthy _lie_.” Balin was shocked that Thorin’s mental state had deteriorated to the point where he would even consider it. Thorin then yelled out, _“THE ARKENSTONE IS IN THIS MOUNTAIN! IT IS A TRICK!”_

“It-It’s no trick.” At the top of the ramparts, Bilbo stepped out from the dwarves, moving a little closer to the prince. “The stone is real. I gave it to them.”

As Bilbo spoke, Thorin’s expression changed to a mixture of anger and sorrow. Thranduil and Bard sat up straighter on their mounts, worried for the hobbit’s safety. Thorin and the other dwarves turned to Bilbo in shock. “You…” the prince gasped.

“I took it as my fourteenth share.”

“You would steal from me?!”

“Steal from you? No. No. I may be a burglar, but I like to think I’m an honest one. I’m willing to let it stand against my claim.”

“Against your claim?!” Thorin roared, “Your claim! You have no claim over me you miserable rat!” He threw down his bow in anger and began making for Bilbo.

“I was going to give it to you!” the hobbit shouted, “Many times I wanted to, but...”

“But what, _thief?!_ ”

“I knew this was going to happen!” the ex-soldier shouted, waving between them, “This! The dragon sickness has poisoned you – you are changed, Thorin! I had hoped – against hope, I admit – that it wouldn’t have come to this. I had hoped that you would overcome this, so that I _could_ present the Arkenstone to you, and I would have, with a glad heart! It would have given me great joy to watch you be crowned king!

“But then,” said the hobbit, “You let me down. You let all of us down. The dwarf I met in Bag End would never have gone back on his word! Would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin!”

“Do not speak to me... of loyalty!” Thorin shouted to the other dwarves, “Throw him from the rampart!”

Bilbo stood firm, resolute. Rather than obeying Thorin, the other dwarves stepped away from Bilbo, realizing the same. Thorin seemed surprised that no one obeyed him. “DO YOU HEAR ME?!” He grabbed Fíli’s arm, but Fíli shook him away. “I will do it myself!” He lunged for the hobbit and grabbed him, shouting, “CURSE YOU!”

As Thorin struggled with Bilbo, the other dwarves leaped forward, shouting, to pull Thorin away. Thorin managed to grab Bilbo and wrestled him over to the edge of the rampart. “Cursed be the Wizard that forced you on this Company!”

Suddenly Gandalf appeared, striding through the armies below. Magically amplified, his voice bounced off the stone and reached them clear as a bell. “ _IF YOU DON’T LIKE MY BURGLAR_ …” His voice returned to a normal volume and tone. “Then please don’t damage him. Return him to me! You’re not making a very splendid figure as king under the mountain, are you? Thorin, son of Thráin!”

Thorin slowly let Bilbo up, and some of the other dwarves rushed to help him. “Never again will I have dealings with wizards,” the dwarf prince bellowed down, “Or Shire-rats!”

Bofur gently guided Bilbo toward the rope he’d hung the night before to climb down the walls. Bilbo threw it over the wall once more and climbed down.

“Are we resolved?” Bard called, “The return of the Arkenstone for what was promised?”

Thorin, breathing heavily, looked to a ridge in the distance, as if expecting someone or something.

“Give us your answer! Will you have peace or war?”

As Thorin bowed his head, a large raven flew up to the ramparts and perched beside him, cawing. Thorin and the raven stared at each other. “I will have war.”

A rumbling was heard in the distance, and the armies turned to see the ridge being covered by troops of heavily armored dwarves, led by a huge dwarf riding a battle-pig.

“Ironfoot,” Gandalf growled.

The Erebor dwarves cheered as they saw their backup arriving.

Thranduil called for his Elves to face their new opponent, riding through his army as they turned away from the gates of Erebor and marched quickly toward the oncoming Iron Hills dwarves. Gandalf moved along with them, Bilbo rushing to keep up with their longer strides.

“Who is that?” Bilbo asked, remembering the dwarf, though not his name, “He doesn’t look very happy.”

“It is Dáin, lord of the Iron Hills - Thorin’s cousin,” Gandalf responded.

“Are they alike?”

“I always found Thorin the more reasonable of the two,” the wizard said dryly, looking down at the hobbit.

The two armies halted a short distance from one another, and Dain rode his pig onto a rocky overlook to address the Elves and Men. “Good morning!” he boomed cheerfully, “How are we all? I have a wee proposition, if you wouldn’t mind giving me a few moments of your time. Would you consider... JUST _SODDING OFF_! All of you - right now!”

“Stand fast!” Bard called to the people of Laketown, even as the Elves moved into battle positions around them.

Gandalf strode forward. “Come now, Lord Dáin!” he called, drawing the dwarf’s attention.

“Gandalf the Grey,” the dwarf acknowledged, “Tell this rabble to leave, or I’ll water the ground with their blood!” He waved his hammer to encompass the group of men and Elves.

“There is no need for war between dwarves, men, and Elves!” said the wizard, moving to stand between the two armies, “A legion of Orcs march on the mountain. Stand your army down!”

“I will not stand down before any Elf!” Dáin snarled in response, “Not least this faithless woodland sprite!” He gestured to Thranduil. “He wishes nothing but ill upon my people! If he chooses to stand between me and my kin - I’ll split his pretty head open! See if he’s still smirking then!”

Thranduil smiled furiously, as the Erebor dwarves cheered atop their barricade. “He’s clearly mad, like his cousin,” he said, flicking his gaze between Dáin and his army and the hills where the were-worms would emerge.

“You hear that, lads?!” Dáin turned to rejoin his army. “We’re on! Let’s give these bastards a good hammering!”

A dwarf yelled out a command, and the Iron Hills dwarves raised their weapons and shouted a response in Khuzdul. The ranks of Elven archers twisted back and away to put their shield-and-spear bearers between them and Dáin’s army. As both armies prepared to engage, the ground began to vibrate in the distance, the sounds of cracking rock reaching them. The dwarves fell silent as they all turned to look.

“Were-worms,” Gandalf murmured.

At the spur of the mountain, parallel with Dáin and his dwarves, a massive worm, hundreds of feet long and dozens of feet thick, broke through the rocks, followed by another, and another and another. All were shrieking, crushed rock spraying from their jaws. The human, Elf, and dwarf armies looked on in shock.

The worms pulled back into the tunnels they had made through the earth approaching the Lonely Mountain. A horn sounded atop the Ravenhill, the tower there signaling in conjunction, and legions of Orcs began pouring out of the openings in the mountainside.

“The hordes of hell are upon us!” Dáin shouted, leading his army around to stand between the Orcs and the mountain, “To battle! To battle, sons of Durin!”

At a nod from their king, the sword-Elves moved up behind the dwarves, the archers launching the first volley over the dwarvish line as a cover while their path was still clear. Masses of Orcs fell, but still more kept coming, trampling the bodies of their fallen comrades. The Orcs closed with the shield wall just as the last of the sword-Elves fell into position. Right as the Orcs reached the dwarves, the first three rows of Elves charged, leaping up over the shield wall from behind with swords drawn, and began cutting a swath through the foremost creatures. As the Elves pressed forward, the dwarves broke their shield wall and rushed forward, cutting down Orcs with their pikes and spears as the Elves deftly moved aside. Dáin rode furiously through the Orcs, smashing them left and right with his hammer.

“Eh, Gandalf - Is this a good place to stand?” Bilbo asked the wizard rhetorically, knowing he wasn’t going to be there for long, right before the signal flags changed their position to show a new signal, the horn sounding a second time. Seeing the signal, Gandalf looked to see new legions of Orcs emerging from the tunnels, including massive trolls and other monsters. Thranduil shouted for his archers with the longest ranges to take aim at them, guiding his elk through the reserve ranks of Elves.

The horn atop Ravenhill sounded a third time, the signal flags changing position once again, this time to signal the Orc’s forces to attack Dale. Fresh from the tunnels, new ranks of soldiers turned to do so, marching toward the ruined city-

-a roar echoed across the battlefield, on its heels a gust of hot, dry wind. Smaug dropped from beyond the clouds in a steep dive, and passed so close to the signal flag that the draft from his wings was sufficient to knock it off the tower, sending it spinning through the air to break on the ground below. His sharp descent brought him even lower, and he breathed a white hot stream of dragonfire along the edge of the river separating Dale from the rest of the battlefield. The heat from the flames cracked and melted the layer of ice on the river, creating a wall of both raging fire and rushing water between the men and women in Dale and the Orcs who would kill them.

The dragon circled around to land heavily on the roof of the Great Hall, weak and weary but unmistakably alive. The Black Arrow had flown true, struck its mark, but not deep enough; half its length protruded from the creature’s breast, leaving him alive but still affected by the wound. Smaug’s head drooped, his forepaws unable to bear his full upper body weight, and froth dripped from his jaws as his eyes rolled, darkened and unseeing.

“Leave him!” Bilbo shouted, waving, “ _Leave him!_ Focus on the Orcs!”

“Do as he says! Leave the dragon be!” Thranduil bellowed to his troops, galloping through the masses of Orcs astride his elk, Bard confirming the order for the humans and sending a messenger around the fire to Dale with word of the same.

The battle continued to rage, Dale safe beyond the wall of fire and torrent of water, for the most part. The war beasts and the Orcs on their backs launched rocks from the other side, but rarely struck their mark. Smaug batted the stones away with his wings and tail when they came too close to him.

The fire died slowly, and some of the Orcs broke for the city when an opening appeared, but without Azog’s guidance, they were not nearly as coordinated or effective. They still had the advantage of numbers, more of their kind still pouring from the tunnels, and drove the men, dwarves, and Elves alike to rally in mixed ranks before the door of the mountain.

Bilbo had retreated to Dale with Gandalf, and was helping to hold the town against the occasional interloper who made it through the fire and ice cold water without succumbing. The threat of Smaug seemed enough to hold most of the Orcs back, or even send them running right past Dale, despite the fact that the dragon was clearly half-dead.

The hobbit made his way up to the roof of the Great Hall, moving carefully through the ruins and avoiding areas of the building that were already groaning under the dragon’s weight.

Smaug was even more magnificent in the light, his sinuous form curled up around the domed roof, sunlight reflecting off the gold and gems pressed into his scales. Even with the Black Arrow half-embedded in the single-scale gap, he radiated beauty and danger and mystery, and drew the hobbit in.

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient._

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

_Could be dangerous._

The ex-soldier carefully climbed the roof, even creeping over Smaug himself so he could face the dragon head on. Bilbo grabbed hold of the spire at the peak of the dome to steady himself and straightened to look at him. Smaug was watching the battlefield with dark and unfocused eyes, not concussed but clearly out of it. Yet he was aware of the hobbit’s presence; his spines flared, then laid as flat as possible against his neck, his head finally swaying around to point at the Halfling.

_“True courage is not knowing when to take a life…”_

Bilbo’s eyes dropped to the Black Arrow.

_“…but when to spare one.”_

Smaug let out a low growl when he touched the fletching of the Arrow, stilling his swaying but making no move to attack. The hobbit called on John’s stability and took a deep breath for courage, then began to ease the Arrow out as steady as he could.

_“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service.”_

The dragon’s chest was not glowing with contained fire, but still the sheer heat of him was making the hobbit sweat. He paused with the Arrow about two thirds of the way out to wipe his hands before beginning again.

_“You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady.”_

Bilbo was forced to stop again when Smaug lifted a wing to bat away a boulder flying their way, and took the opportunity to wipe his hands again, and his brow. Both of them ignored the sounds of Bombur blowing his own horn atop the wall before the mountain, the great _gong_ of the golden bell smashing through the dwarves’ barricade as Thorin and the company joined the battle.

_“You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson.”_

The tip of the Arrow eased free.

_“You miss it.”_

Smaug blinked once, then again and again, his eyes glowing gold once more.

* * *

On the battlefield below, Thorin sliced through the skull of an orc who thought to kill him, and called out to his cousin, who was not far away. “Dáin!”

“Thorin!” was the reply, “Hold on! I’m coming!” The dwarves continued killing the orcs between them, all the while getting closer to each other. “Hey cousin, what took you so long?!” In a brief respite, they met and hugged. “There’s too many of these buggers, Thorin” Dáin panted, “I hope you’ve got a plan.”

Thorin looked up, scanning the area beyond the battlefield. He frowned when he spotted what looked like the company’s burglar atop the Great Hall with the dragon Smaug, but then his attention was caught by the hilltop where Azog and his men still stood, trying to come up with some kind of new signal platform. “Aye,” he said, “We’re going to take out their leader!”

“Azog...”

Thorin jogged forward and mounted a large goat brought by Dáin’s army. “I’m gonna kill that piece of filth!” he growled, and turned the beast toward Ravenhill. He charged toward Azog’s hill with Dwalin and his nephews, each on a goat. The beasts had their heads lowered, horns and hard skulls smashing through the Orc armies in their way.

* * *

Back in Dale, Gandalf watched as human spearmen and archers kill a massive troll attempting to climb to the top of a flight of stairs. It roared in pain and fell back onto its own allies, crushing them and blocking the path. “We may yet survive this,” said the wizard.

“GANDALF!” Bilbo shouted down from the roof of the Great Hall, using the Black Arrow for a staff of his own, keeping his balance on the edge of the roof. Smaug’s head leaned out over the edge, too, so he could peer down at the wizard.

Gandalf killed an Orc, then hurried over to where Bilbo signaled, standing at the wall and watching as Thorin, Dwalin, Fíli, and Kíli rode up a spur of the mountain towards Ravenhill.

“It’s Thorin!” called the hobbit.

“And Fíli, Kíli... and Dwalin,” the Istari added, “He’s taking his best warriors to kill Azog!”

Just then, Legolas and Tauriel arrived back in Dale together on a horse. They charged through the streets, killing Orcs on their way. When he noticed, Gandalf moved to greet them. “Legolas... Legolas Greenleaf.”

“There is a second army!” the blond Elf called without preamble, frowning at Smaug but ignoring him in favor of his message, “Bolg leads a force of Gundabad Orcs. They are almost upon us!”

“Gundabad…” repeated the wizard, “This was their plan all along. Azog engages our forces, then Bolg seeps in from the north.” He turned back and strode over to the parapet once more to look after the four dwarves. “Ravenhill.”

“Ravenhill,” said Bilbo, still shouting from the roof, “Thorin is up there! And Fíli and Kíli - they’re all up there!”

At the sound of Kíli’s name, Tauriel became alarmed. Together, they all looked out toward the top of Ravenhill, which had become shrouded in mist and smoke.

* * *

Thorin and Co finished slaying the Orcs in the ruins across the frozen waterfall from Azog’s stronghold, then looked out across the still falls at the ruins where Azog had last been seen. His horn, the last of his signaling machines, stood abandoned.

“Where is he?” the prince whispered.

“Looks empty,” said Kíli, “I think Azog has fled!”

“I don’t think so,” the prince refuted, then turned. “Fíli, take your brother. Scout out the towers. Keep low and out of sight. If you see something, report back. Do not engage, do you understand?!”

“We have company,” said Dwalin, calling for their attention, “Goblin mercenaries. No more than a hundred.” They all looked back the way they had come to see goblins running over the ruins toward them, shrieking.

“We’ll take care of them,” said Thorin, “Go! Go!”

As Fíli and Kíli ducked across the river, Thorin and Dwalin moved to meet the goblins rushing toward them, yelling battle cries of their own.

* * *

In a moment of peace, Thranduil walked slowly through the city, seeing the bodies of the fallen strewn like toys on the ground, many of which were his own Elves. His attendant came running up, sword drawn, the same Elf who had delivered his message to Legolas and Tauriel. “Recall your company,” he commanded.

The attendant groped for his horn and blew it. Gandalf heard the signal and came running up. “My lord, dispatch this force to Ravenhill! The dwarves are about to be overrun. Thorin must be warned.”

“By all means, warn him. I have spent enough Elvish blood in defense of this accursed land - No more!” Thranduil walked away haughtily and angrily.

“Thranduil?!” asked the Istari.

“I’ll go!” Bilbo called from where he was still on the roof.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” the wizard shouted back, “You’ll never make it!”

“Why not?”

“Because they will see you coming and kill you!”

“No, they won’t.” When Gandalf looked at Bilbo peculiarly, he clarified, “They won’t see _me_.” He glanced back at Smaug. The dragon met his gaze levelly, still not all _there_ but more _there_ than he was before, recovering fast now that the Black Arrow had been removed. Then the hobbit turned back to the wizard.

“Out of the question,” he boomed, “I won’t allow it!”

“I’m not asking you to allow it, Gandalf.” The hobbit turned once again to the dragon and approached him carefully. Smaug gazed at him for a long moment. Then without a word, he lowered his head, and permitted Bilbo to climb up onto his back. The Halfling settled between his shoulders, mindful of the sharp spines on his back, and reached into his coat to pull out the Ring and slip it on, shivering as the world washed out and began to move around him. Smaug glowed a warm red beneath him, so unlike the white Elves, Men, and Istari, or the black Orcs.

Bilbo held tight to the dragon’s spines and the Black Arrow still in hand. Smaug must have felt him ready himself, because he reared up, then leaped into the sky, his flight considerably easier than before. He roared a warning, then renewed the wall of flame protecting Dale before angling for the Ravenhill, the invisible hobbit on his back.

* * *

As Thranduil and his Elves marched through the city, killing Orcs, they stopped abruptly when they came upon Tauriel standing to one side of the lane ahead of them, watching Smaug in flight. When she noticed them in turn, she pushed off the wall and waited as Thranduil approached. In English, the Elf King said, “Give me your bow and arrows.” When she did so, he turned both of his swords and their sheaths over to her, helping her to buckle them on.

Then she turned and sprinted for Ravenhill. “Go after her, Legolas,” Thranduil said in the common tongue, not looking toward where his son had been waiting for her judgement, “She will need the support.”

The younger Elf broke away from his concealment and followed her across the causeway.

* * *

Still wearing a woman’s outfit and clutching the gold he found to his chest, Alfrid wove through the city, dodging the few Orcs that managed to get past before Smaug renewed the fire. As he backed toward a wall, a lone troll climbed over it and roared at him. It raised its club to kill him, and he screamed. Suddenly, from behind him, Bard shot an arrow, aiming for just under its breastbone, and killed it. Alfrid turned to run and tripped, the gold spilling from his dress. He scrambled to gather it up.

“Get up!” Bard demanded.

“Get away from me!” the other man snarled, still gathering up the coin, “I don’t take orders from you! People trusted you. They listened to you. The Master’s mantle was there for the taking. And you threw it all away - for what?”

Bard turned to look back. Alfrid followed his gaze, and saw Bard’s children in a doorway, staring at him with his dress full of coins. He scoffed, turned, and stomped away.

“Alfrid,” the archer called after him, “your slip is showing.”

The man adjusted his dress, then rushed away. Bard sincerely hoped that would be the last they saw of him.

* * *

Having defeated the goblins, Thorin stared anxiously out over the frozen river. Dwalin voiced his concern with his, “Where is that Orc filth?”

Both dwarves snapped around when they heard Smaug’s wingbeats. They lifted their weapons when he landed behind them, only to almost drop them in shock when Bilbo appeared out of thin air on his back and scrambled to get down. The dragon stayed low in the mist behind a ruined wall, eyes watching Ravenhill and tail twitching like a cat’s.

“Thorin, you have to leave here!” the hobbit yelled, sprinting across the distance between them, “Now! Azog has another army attacking from the north. This watchtower will be completely surrounded. There’ll be no way out.”

“We are so close!” Dwalin growled, “That Orc scum is in there. I say we push on.”

“No! That’s what he wants. He wants to draw us in.” Suddenly, Thorin understood. “This is a trap,” he hissed, “Find Fíli and Kíli! Call them back!”

“Thorin, are you sure about this?”

“Do it. We live to fight another day.”

As they turned to leave, a drumbeat from Ravenhill called them back. Firelight appeared in the remnants of the tower, and at its top, Azog appeared, dragging a bloodied Fíli behind him. _“_ _This one dies first,”_ he said in his native tongue. Unseen by the Orc, Smaug wiggled like a cat preparing to pounce. _“Then the brother. Then you, Oakenshield._ _You will die last.”_

“No!” shouted the dwarrow in his grip, “RUN!”

Thorin, Dwalin, and Bilbo looked helplessly as Azog lifted Fíli by the neck – but before he could go in for the kill, Smaug lifted himself above the mist and ruins concealing him and _roared_ so **loud** that the sound seemed to shake the whole world. The Orcs were all so shocked to see him so close that some turned to run without thought. Azog dropped Fíli and staggered back, startled. The dwarf fell to the ground from the tower, tucked and rolled to minimize injury, then regained his feet and limped quickly away towards the others. He fell past Kíli, who had been watching from a doorway below. Seeing that his brother yet lived, Kíli cheered and rushed down the tower steps toward the dwarrows, hobbit, and dragon.

“FÍLI!” Thorin bellowed, running across the frozen waterfall to meet him, grabbing hold of his nephew and checking him all over. Aside from some nasty bruises from where he’d hit the ground and a few cracked bones, he was unharmed from his fall. The prince pulled the other dwarf into a fierce embrace, which Fíli returned. Kíli tore from the tower and practically jumped on his brother in joy.

Thorin released the younger dwarf and turned to look back at Smaug. He opened his mouth to speak, but the dragon got there first.

 **“Whatever you wish to say can wait,”** he rumbled, the sheer depth of his voice making the ruined stones shift around them. He sounded raspier than usual, if that was possible. **“This is not yet over.”**

He was right. The dwarves turned to look at one another, nodding, then yelled battle cries and rushed Orcs beginning to emerge from the tower. Azog lunged out of a tunnel to attack the dwarf prince, and they began their fight on the snowy mountainside, Thorin with his sword and Azog with his arm-blade and a heavy mace. The Orc was much larger than the dwarf, had a lot more bulk, and so the prince could barely parry his blows, but his smaller size gave him the advantage of speed for dodging.

Still on the other side of the river with Smaug, Bilbo heard a noise and ducked as werebats flew out of the mist. The dragon reared up to snatch at them, the crunching of their bones making the hobbit twitch as Smaug ate them. Sting began to glow blue in his hand, and he looked back to see Bolg and his forces climb a ruined wall. Seeing Bilbo but apparently not the _motherfucking DRAGON_ , the Orcs charged at him. He lifted his sword and readied himself, quickly reviewing what the dwarves had taught him about fighting with Sting. Just before they reached him, Dwalin charged up to join him and began fighting some of the Orcs singlehandedly, the hobbit providing support. They both ducked when Smaug swung his tail like a mace to knock the Orcs off their feet, and killed the ones who fell as quick as they could before resuming their fight with the rest.

* * *

Tauriel and Legolas paused on the causeway to Ravenhill, the werebats swarming ahead of them. The beasts arrowed down to the main battlefields, swooping through ranks of soldiers and slamming into the dwarves and few remaining Elves. Thranduil had withdrawn his warriors from the melee, but his archers were still posted in Dale. As the bats flew by, they launched volleys of arrows into their midst, taking out a great number of them.

Legolas jumped and grabbed the leg of a passing werebat, and it carried him away. Tauriel saw Kíli in the ruins, fighting several Orcs on the ruins with his brother at his side.

“Kíli...” she said, surprised, then glad.

* * *

Azog and Thorin continued to fight in the ruins, the Orc’s armor too thick for the dwarf to do any real damage even though the beast was careless with defense and the prince hit him multiple times. Thorin managed to knock Azog off his feet, and Azog slid down a slippery set of stairs, but before Thorin could chase him, go in for the kill, other Orcs climbed over the ruins to attack, forcing him to defend.

In the courtyard, Bilbo threw rocks at Orcs with one hand and stabbed the stunned ones with Sting in the other, Dwalin fighting the beasts head on. Smaug crushed any who came near with his claws or bit them in half and spat them out, apparently not liking the taste.

Kíli continued fighting his way up the ruins with his brother, and Tauriel, looking for them, encountered several Orcs rushing out of a side tunnel and killed them when they charged her.

Its flight laborious, the werebat still carried Legolas through the air, the archer trying to find a good spot to make his stand.

As Bilbo continued throwing rocks, Bolg suddenly ran out and tried to smack Bilbo in the head with the handle of his mace. The hobbit had been expecting the move and jerked back to avoid the swing, but he overbalanced and fell back onto his rear. Bolg appeared not to have noticed and kept moving, the hobbit getting back up and continuing to fight once he was gone.

As the werebat carried Legolas over the ruins of a stone tower, he shot it through the soft flesh under its jaw, the arrow piercing through its skull and killing it. Its grip slacked with death, he dropped free and landed gracefully on top of the tower.

Azog, recovered from his short fall, charged Thorin out of another hall and knocked him onto the surface of the frozen river. _“_ _Go in for the kill!”_ Azog yelled to his Orcs, many of whom ran out on to the ice to attack Thorin, _“_ _Finish him!”_

Thorin looked around rapidly as the Orcs ran toward him, trying to work out how to fight so many. Suddenly the Orcs began toppling with arrows stuck in them. Legolas was on the tower above, shooting the Orcs attacking Thorin from the summit. Thorin moved to take on the remaining Orcs, even with his broken sword.

In a moment of respite after slaying another opponent, Tauriel called out, “KÍLI!” She knew that he could hear her but was too busy double-teaming two Orcs at once with his brother to respond. “KÍLI!” she shouted again.

“TAURIEL!” he cried in response.

“Kíli…” Good, he was still alive. She readied herself, and jumped out of the way when Bolg lunged out of a tunnel at her, rolling and coming up with Thranduil’s swords in hand.

Kíli slew his opponents and began making his way toward her, Fíli close behind and looking just as angry as his brother.

Though she was not stronger than the Orc, she was faster and more agile, and Tauriel managed to slip from Bolg’s grasp to attack him with the dual swords. He caught both her arms and twisted them, causing her to gasp in pain, then smashed his fist down on her head, temporarily felling her.

Fíli and Kíli rushed desperately when they heard Tauriel’s groans. Bolg lifted Tauriel up by the throat, but that proved to be a mistake. It put his knee in range of her foot, and she kicked out with all her might, making him drop her and fall. The Elf tried to go in for the kill with her knife, but he grabbed her and threw her bodily against a wall. As she laid stunned on the ground, he pulled out his mace for the kill, but Fíli and Kíli were suddenly there, leaping from a higher level onto him. They fought, and Kíli managed to slash him, but Bolg grabbed and held the dwarf against his knee, lifting the pointed base of his mace to stab him through the chest.

“No!” Fíli shouted, and jumped on Bolg from behind.

Bolg threw him down, but in his preoccupation with the dwarves, he forgot about the Elf.

Tauriel gathered Thranduil’s swords and ran the Orc through with them both, one up through the heart, the other through the spine. He sagged in her grip, then fell, almost landing on Kíli, but the dwarf scrambled out of the way in time to avoid being crushed.

They all panted around the corpse for a moment, making sure it did not move. Then Tauriel let the Elven King’s swords fall and sank to her knees, crawling over to Kíli and pulling him into a fierce hug, and wrapping his brother in, too, when he limped over to join them.

* * *

Legolas felt the tower wobble under him without warning. He looked down at the base to see a troll smashing away at the stone foundation. He reached back for an arrow to slay it, only to find that he had run out without knowing. He scowled and threw down his bow, pulling out Orcrist and leaping off the top of the tower, plummeting down with the sword out. His aim was dead on, as always, stabbing the troll through the head, and it hobbled around in pain. Twisting the sword like a guide stick, he got the troll to turn and charge forward, smashing head first into the already-weakened base of the tower. The tower fell across the chasm, forming a weak bridge across the face of the falls. Legolas pulled the blade free and moved to cross it.

Up above, Thorin hamstringed an Orc right before another one rushed up and smashed into him, sending him sliding across the ice all the way to the edge of the waterfall, directly over the Elf Prince. Thorin managed to stab the Orc in the neck and throw it over the edge of the waterfall. It landed on the bridge behind the Elf, slamming into an Orc that had been sneaking up on him and breaking through the weak stones, but the blond was agile enough to avoid falling. Another Orc approached Thorin, lying on his back, partially hanging over the edge of the waterfall, defenseless. As it raised its axe, Legolas pursed his lips but threw Orcrist, his aim still true as the sword sank into the beast’s chest, killing it. As it fell over the edge, Thorin leaned and reached out to grab the sword, saving it from going over.

As Legolas watched Thorin, another Orc charged onto the bridge and swung at him, but Legolas dodged and pulled his two knives from his quiver, fighting and easily slaying the beast with them. Thorin stood and looked in wonder at his blade come back to him, then up the river. Azog, alone, stood facing him on the far end where a bridge had once been. Orc and dwarf approached each other slowly.

A horn blew in the distance, and Azog smiled as the rise behind him became covered with approaching Orc reinforcements. He roared, charged forward, and swung a large makeshift Morningstar, a rock attached to a chain, at Thorin, who ducked under it. Azog was unbalanced by the swing, and Thorin took advantage, getting behind him and slashing him. Azog angrily swung the rock at him again, whipping it down from overhead, and Thorin dodged, the rock smashing into the ice and cracking it.

Legolas took advantage of a brief reprieve in opponents to finish crossing the bridge and destroy it behind him to prevent more Orcs form coming up from behind. He looked around up at the Ravenhill for Tauriel, but didn’t see her. “Tauriel!” he called.

As Thorin and Azog fought, the ice continued to crack. They both paused for a second, slipping on the ice, then the beast swung again with a battle cry. This time, the ice actually separated completely beneath them. As Thorin stumbled over one edge of the ice, Azog managed to knock his legs out from under him with the chain, but he was able to roll free of several more swipes. He caught the Pale Orc off balance and slashed one of his thighs, lunging past him. Azog angrily swung the Morningstar at Thorin, missing, and the rock became stuck in the ice, forcing the beast to lunge forward and slash at Thorin with his bladed arm, only to return to his side of the ice when they nearly unbalanced.

Suddenly, Azog’s face went slack with shock as he looked into the sky behind Thorin. The Eagles, with Radagast riding their leader, had arrived at last and swooped by, shrieking their battle cries. They sailed through the first of the oncoming Orc legions from Gundabad, decimating them. Beorn, riding atop one of the other Eagles, threw himself off it and transformed into his bear shape as he fell, landing right in the middle of the Orcs. He smashed through them with ease. At some point, Smaug had taken off for the battle in the valley below, but now he returned on the heels of the Eagles, and released a long stream of fire into the enemy ranks further back, some of the Eagles circling back around to follow him and fan the flames with their wings.

Thorin let Orcrist slide from his hand when their ice floe bumped against the piece from which it had calved. The dwarf scooped up the rock at the end of the chain and threw it at Azog, who caught it reflexively. The Pale Orc stared at him in confusion, then Thorin stepped backward off the ice floe that they were both standing on. Without his weight to balance it, the ice floe tipped Azog into the icy water below. He dropped the Morningstar and scrabbled for purchase on the ice, but his own weight and that of his armor pulled him down. The prince panted in exhaustion, watching the spot where he’d vanished.

As he bent down to pick up Orcrist, Thorin saw Azog beneath the ice, being pulled slowly by the current toward the edge of the frozen falls. Thorin slowly walked above him, and they stared at each other through the ice. The Orc closed his eyes.

“Thorin!”

Bilbo. The dwarf looked up, eyes locking on the hobbit.

“Get back!” the hobbit shouted, waving to signal the same, _“GET BACK!”_

The prince didn’t think, just moved to obey, and threw himself backwards as Azog shoved his blade up through the ice, right where his foot had been. He leaped through the ice as Thorin scrambled to recover, pushing himself backward on the ice. As he stabbed his blade arm down at the dwarf, Thorin managed to stop it from running him through by sliding Orcrist in one of the forks of the blade. Using gravity and his superior weight and position, the Orc slowly pushed his blade further and further, only to be startled when a rock slammed into his head. Bilbo scooped up another one and threw it as Smaug passed directly overhead, roaring, his spiked tail falling low enough to knock the Orc off the prince. Thorin took advantage of the distractions they provided to get back on his feet and throw himself at the Orc, running the beast all the way through with Orcrist before pushing himself back and away, out of reach of any return strike.

Azog gasped and choked as they watched, staggering on the ice as Smaug circled around to land amongst the ruins of Ravenhill once more, rumbling low in his throat. The Pale Orc sank to his knees, then fell face first onto the ice with one last gasp, dead at last.

The hobbit and dwarf could hardly believe it. Smaug’s face was inscrutable as he climbed over the ruins to the edge of the river, and there he crouched, still silent.

Thorin stumbled toward the edge of the frozen waterfall, looking out over the battlefield below, where the remaining Orcs were clearly being routed. No more of the beasts were emerging from the tunnels, and fires glowed within. Smaug had landed in front of one of the openings and breathed as much fire down it as he could, cooking the Orcs still inside the earth.

Weak from his wound, the prince sank to his knees at the edge of the fall. Bilbo stumbled over to him, his legs feeling like jelly, and flopped down next to him. They were silent for a long moment, then Thorin said, “I was under the impression… that I was not going to survive.”

“I am aware…” Bilbo replied, “and I have never… been so happy to be wrong.”

They smiled, still looking out over the battlefield. Then Thorin leaned over and pulled Bilbo into a hug. “I am glad you are here,” he whispered, “If this is the last we will see one another, I wish to part from you in friendship. I would take back my words and deeds at the gate. You did what only a true friend would do.” He sat back, looking into the hobbit’s eyes. “Forgive me, I was too blind to see. I’m so sorry that I have led you into such peril. And… _thank you._ ”

The hobbit gripped his shoulder. “Thorin, there is nothing to forgive. I’m glad to have shared in all your perils, each and every one of them. It’s far more than any Baggins deserves. And you’re not getting rid of me just yet. I told you, I want to see you crowned king.”

They smiled at one another. Then the other dwarrows arrived on the frozen river, crying out in relief when they saw that Thorin yet lived and rushing over to pull him into an embrace. Fíli and Kíli were among them, and Tauriel trailed behind, standing a little ways off next to the dragon.

* * *

Thranduil walked slowly through the ruins of Ravenhill, gazing about at the carnage. Legolas ducked in through a tunnel and approached him. “I... cannot go back.” The younger Elf brushed past his father and prepared to leave.

“Where will you go?”

Legolas turned and faced Thranduil. “I do not know.”

“Go north,” Thranduil suggested, “Find the Dúnedain. There’s a young Ranger soon to be amongst them - you should meet him. His father, Arathorn, was a good man. His son might grow to be a great one.”

“What is his name?”

“He’ll be known in the wild as Strider. His true name you must discover for yourself.”They nodded at each other, then Legolas turned and walked away. Thranduil called after him, “Legolas, your mother loved you, more than anyone, more than life.”

Legolas’ eyes widened in shock and surprise. He made a gesture of departure to his father, which was returned, then he left. Thranduil walked back the way his son had come and saw the dwarrows celebrating under the watchful eyes of Smaug and Tauriel. The she-Elf had eyes only for Kíli, smiling at the dwarf, and he turned to grin back at her.

Thranduil did not need to be an expert on love to know that the two were in it.

* * *

It took time to tally the dead and gather them up for burning. The Orcs were simply dumped in piles that were set alight by the dragon, but the Elves were taken back to Mirkwood to be laid to rest in the embrace of the forest, the Dwarves deep into Erebor, and the men and women of Laketown were laid to rest on funeral pyres and consigned to the flames before their grieving families.

No one said anything about the dragon, but at some point, without being seen by _anyone_ , Smaug slipped back into the mountain and fell asleep on the gold. Tilda reported that before he did so, he had been picking over the broken rocks of Erebor, Dale, and Ravenhill, and she even saw him _eat_ one. They wouldn’t have believed her if a few other children hadn’t claimed to have seen the same thing.

‘Dragons eating rocks?’ Bilbo thought as he picked his way over the gold with Gandalf, Bard, Thranduil, Tauriel, and the rest of the company. Smaug was sleeping in an out-of-the-way corner, one of his wings pulled up over most of his bulk. He didn’t react to their approach, or even when Dwalin threw a gemstone that bounced off of him.

Thorin’s eyes narrowed, and he studied the dragon at length, thinking deeply. Finally, he said, “Leave him.”

“Are you sure?” Dwalin asked, voicing the question that everyone save Bilbo was thinking.

“He attacked us, yes, and brought ruin to our people,” said the prince, frowning, “but without him, many more innocents would have died against Azog and his army, myself included.” Here he seemed almost reluctant to add on, but finally did. “And in a way, we brought it on ourselves. We were not mindful for the sickness that has almost undone us, watchful for its consequences.” His shoulders drooped in shame, and he was silent for a moment more. “So long as he offers no battle, leave him be. Perhaps we can use him to guard the mountain.”

Smaug slept on. For over a week, he laid in the corner, unmoving, and eventually some of the children got over their fear of him and went to investigate. Because of the way he was lying, they made a game of seeing how many coins they could stack on the sides of his back spines before the slow expansion of his breathing toppled them.

The dragon was alone when he woke. He blinked slowly, before he rolled to his feet and stretched, yawning. Then he snaked his head down to peer at his chest.

His missing scale had regrown. He scratched at it to remove the shiny coating on the new scale, making sure that it was solidly in place, then padded out into the rest of the mountain.

* * *

While Bard, Thranduil, Bilbo, and Gandalf were in conference with Thorin, the rest of the company, and Dáin, negotiating suitable wergild, there was a knock at the door. One of the guards stepped in, looking confused, and announced, “The Fire-Drake Smaug.”

But the being that stepped into the room after him was not a dragon, not really. It was a Man, or perhaps an Elf, tall and willowy, with dark curly hair, sharply pointed ears, and slit-pupiled golden eyes that glowed from within. His skin was pale and patchy with red dragon scales. He wore an old and threadbare pair of pants, likely originally meant for a dwarf because they barely passed his knees, and over it a glittering, unbroken coat of dragon scales that joined with his skin, so long that it dragged on the floor behind him, his tail twitching between its flaps. Yet, as they watched, the patches of scales gave way to smooth and unmarred pale skin, and the coat grew shorter until it hung just above his ankles, the coins and gems embedded in it shifting closer together or falling free. His tail pulled up into his body, his long fingers shifting to normal hands, his paws to feet. His claws remained, and the horns poking through his hair and spines down his back, though they were much reduced in size.

“I told you,” said Sherlock, “I’d be lost without my blogger.”

The Black Arrow fell from Bilbo’s nerveless fingers, hitting the ground with a clang as he rushed to the dragon. Smaug dropped to one knee to embrace him on a more equal level, and everyone heard the hobbit muttering, “You _bastard_. You _absolute – fucking – bastard_ – I oughta kill you myself,” as he buried his face in the dragon’s neck.

Smaug closed his eyes and began to purr.


	4. Enough Dead Heroes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 02/19/17: Added a scene between Johnbo and Smauglock, and modified a few lines to suit.

The council broke for the day after that so that everyone could be introduced and the whole story of the Other World related. Then, while the others rested, weary from the long battles, Thorin and Smaug negotiated late into the night, Gandalf serving as their mediator. Their anger with one another was spent, taking too much energy to sustain.

In the end, their terms were simple, and so long as neither made any attempt to harm the other, they would stand. Smaug would help the dwarves defend the mountain while simultaneously allowing them residence inside it. In exchange, the dwarves would allow him to come and go as he liked, and set aside gold for him as a sort of payment for their peace, one piece out of every fifty.

“Not a small amount,” said Balin, when he heard, “but a small price to pay for the aid of a dragon.”

In a surprising show of generosity, the dragon also allowed each man, woman, and child from Laketown to take ten gold pieces from his part of the hoard, as restitution for the destruction he wrought. Nothing could bring back the town’s dead, but at least the survivors could rebuild their lives.

* * *

“Bilbo.”

The hobbit looked up from his book to find almost all of the company gathered next to his bench. Bofur was at the forefront of the group, twisting his hat in his hands. “Ah, yes?” the hobbit asked, “What is it?”

“You need to talk to Smaug.”

“Why? What’s the matter?” He shut the book with a snap and nearly jumped to his feet. “Is he hurt?”

“Uh, no. At least, near as we can tell. But I – _we_ saw him headed into the Gallery of the Kings, and he seemed… _distressed_.”

“‘Distressed?’” Bilbo repeated, frowning.

The dwarves all nodded, making the hobbit’s frown deepen. He headed for the Gallery with them in tow, but the company stopped at the door while he continued into the hall.

It looked much the same as it had that night, what seemed like a hundred years ago but in reality was only a week or two, if that. Dwarven builders were focusing their efforts elsewhere, working on making the mountain safe and habitable again before they turned to cosmetic fixes. There was still rubble on the floor, and the gold still lay where it had solidified, though the giant tapestry had been shoved off to one side.

Smaug was hard to miss in his dragon form. He lay stretched out to his full length on the solidified gold. His eyes were closed, and his only movement was his breathing. Yet to Bilbo’s eye, the dragon was not relaxed, even though he was lying down, apparently asleep.

The hobbit walked over and sat down next to the gold pool, leaning up against one of the spattered pillars. Smaug would speak when he was ready.

Several long minutes passed, long enough that Bilbo wished he had brought his book. The dragon was radiating heat, bring the hall up to _just_ the right temperature for him to start nodding off.

But at last, the dragon rumbled, **“I am not him. Not anymore.”**

“Neither of us are,” Bilbo said gently, “That world is gone, and so are they. We have their memories, but we are also ourselves.”

 **“But I _want_ to be!”** Smaug hissed, **“I remember – everything used to be so _clear_ , so sharp and defined. And when we were on cases together, it was all so _bright_.”** His tail whipped back and forth like a cat’s. **“Now the only thing that shines is the gold, and all of me is bent to acquiring it, clouding my mind with _lust_. It took everything I had just to give up what I did.”**

“You still have my fourteenth share, and the promise of more to come – _much_ more. Is that not enough?”

He let out a bark of laughter that was more breath than sound. **“All the gold in Arda would not be enough. Even if I had every speck of it under my belly, I would still strike out into the stars in search of _more._ ”**

“Does your human form give you no relief?”

 **“It gives me centimeters,”** said the dragon, **“but I need _leagues,_ leagues and leagues to be who I was, to do what I did.”** His blazing hot breath hissed out between his teeth in a sigh. **“I envy you. Not for _who_ you are – I know what you carry – but for _what_ you are. You are _free_. All I have are whispers of wonders, and a pile of metal my nature will not let me leave.”**

Bilbo moved closer, and laid a hand on his scales. They were rough, but warm. “You don’t have your cases to hoard anymore, but you still have me.”

 **“Do I?”** he asked wistfully, **“When you return to your Shire, will you still be mine? What guarantee do I have that you will return?”**

“That’s why I want you to come with me.” Well, he hadn’t thought about it before, but _now_ …

 **“What?”** Smaug’s voice was as sharp as a whip-crack.

“Come with me to the Shire,” Bilbo dutifully repeated.

**“Why?”**

That was the question, wasn’t it? “How old am I, Smaug? Do you remember?”

The dragon thought for a moment. Then, **“Fifty-one.”**

“And how old will I be when – _if_ I pass into the West?”

Hesitantly, **“One hundred and thirty-one?”**

Bilbo nodded. “Eighty years… And I don’t know if the Valar will let you come with me, even just to Aman. Do you?”

**“…No.”**

The hobbit laid his other hand on the dragon’s scales. “There will always be gold in Arda,” he said, “but there will not always be _me_.”

Smaug hissed, soft and angry.

“And things are different now, in us but also in this world. Thorin wasn’t supposed to live. Neither were Fíli and Kíli. Neither were _you_. Who’s to say I’ll _make it_ to one-thirty-one? A robber in the dark, a stray arrow from a hunter, an unexpected illness…”

The dragon started growling at that.

“And who’s to say our friends are the only ones who are here with us? Irene, Magnussen, Moran, Eurus… If _Moriarty’s_ here and we encounter one another, do you honestly think he’ll just _let me go?_ ”

Smaug _snarled._ In an instant, Bilbo found himself pinned against the dragon’s side, his whole body curled around the hobbit like a snake. He managed to squirm his way to the dragon’s head and pressed himself close. “Come to the Shire with me,” he said, “You say your human form gives you centimeters? Well _take_ those centimeters and _make it give you leagues_.  Fight for them. If not for yourself, then for me.”

* * *

Bilbo and Balin walked out of the gates of Erebor. The hobbit had his pack slung over his shoulder, prepared to leave – at least temporarily. “Are you sure you cannot stay?” Balin asked, trying in vain to persuade him, “There is to be a great feast tonight. Songs will be sung, tales will be told and this company will pass into legend.”

“I know that this is important, Balin,” said Bilbo, “But what I must do, and soon… If I do not, I fear for all of Middle Earth.”

“It truly means so much? And cannot wait for a few days?”

The hobbit shook his head sadly. With each day that passed, he could feel his will to fight the Ring eroding slowly away. He had to go _now_ , or soon he wouldn’t be able to bring himself to go at all. And if he wanted to return to Erebor, he needed to put his affairs in order in the Shire, too. “Well, I think I’ll slip quietly away. Will you tell we others I said goodbye?”

“You can tell’ em yourself.”

Bilbo looked back and smiled when he saw the other dwarves standing behind him, even Thorin and Thranduil. To all of them, he said, “If any of you ever passing Bag End, tea is at four - there’s plenty of it. You are welcome anytime. And, eh, don’t bother knocking.”

The dwarves all chuckled and bowed to him. “Farewell for now, Master Burglar,” said Thorin, “Go back to your books and your armchair. Plant your trees - watch them grow. If more people valued home above gold, this world would be a merrier place.”

Bilbo smiled. He turned away, only to almost collide with Smaug. For a dragon, he could be remarkably sneaky. **“Are we going?”** the dragon asked, peering at him with a great golden eye.

“Can’t we go on foot?” The hobbit gently tapped him in the nose with the sheathed Sting.

 **“Flying is faster than riding a pony.”** He snorted, then crouched low. **“Get on.”**

Someone (Gandalf, thought Bilbo) had rigged something like a harness to fit in the spike-less hollow between Smaug’s neck and shoulders, with loops around some of the spines further away to help hold it on.

But this was more than just reestablishing the two’s friendship. It was also a test of the new alliance between dragon and dwarves. When Smaug returned to Erebor (and he would), would the dwarves welcome him back as the terms decreed? Or would they return to war?

Bilbo exhaled loudly, then scrambled up onto the dragon’s back. Once there, he quickly figured out the harness and began strapping himself and his gear in.

“See him safely home, dragon,” said Thorin.

 **“Guard the mountain, dwarf,”** Smaug replied. When Bilbo was strapped in, he reared up and leaped into the sky.

* * *

Smaug flew almost due south away from Erebor, passing over Esgaroth and the Long Lake without stopping. Some residents had returned to the burned remains of the city to gather whatever might be salvaged; Bilbo saw them as people little bigger than ants from the air. Some looked up as the dragon passed overhead, but when he kept going, they returned to their work.

The hobbit wasn’t sure if the dragon would be able to hear him over the rushing of the wind, but he decided to try anyway. “Do you think we’ll be able to just fly over the border defenses?” he shouted, “Get into Mordor without having to sneak?”

Smaug rumbled thoughtfully. **“It’s possible,”** he said at last, **“provided they aren’t ready for us. The remains of Azog’s army went south, likely trying to reach the safety of Mordor’s borders. No doubt they’ve brought word that I was fighting _with_ the dwarves, rather than against them. Sauron will prepare for the inevitability that his armies will face me someday and build more artillery weapons. We can only hope that he thinks it will be later, rather than sooner.”**

“So we’ll scout the border?”

**“Mm. We could also fly east along the Ash Mountains, then circle back around and head for Doom from behind. Given the fact that most threats are going to be coming at Mordor from the west, its eastern border is more likely to be only lightly defended. Of course, that exposes us to a greater risk of being seen by the Eye.”**

“Rock and a hard place, then.”

**“Indeed.”**

The dragon flew far and fast, following the River Running as it snaked away from Erebor and Esgaroth, only stopping when dusk fell and the temperature dropped precipitously. Even so close to his warmth, Bilbo shivered with the chill, and at last Smaug landed and let the hobbit down off his back.

They sheltered in a copse of trees alongside the river, Bilbo pressed close to the dragon’s side, warm and safe under his wing. The hobbit ate a meal of cold meat, cheese, and bread for both supper and breakfast the next morning, while Smaug drank deep of the river. **“We will follow the River Running to the Sea of Rh** **û** **n, then fly due south to Ered Lithui, the Ash Mountains, to see what might be seen. I know not how far Sauron’s Eye can see, but it is best to avoid his gaze however we can.”**

“Amen to that.” Bilbo scrambled up onto the dragon’s back and strapped himself in once more.

They arrived at the easternmost foothills two days later. Smaug folded back down into his human shape, and dressed in the rough tunic, trousers, and boots the people of Laketown had provided for him. He had claimed a sword from the Hoard, as well – Ringil, the sword of Fingolfin, the late High King of the Noldor Elves. It had suffered the same fate as Glamdring and Orcrist, stolen and concealed, now come back to the light at last in the hand of a dragon.

Then they began to climb.

When the two ascended the last hill to peer into the darkness of Mordor, they saw signal fires spaced out in an almost completely straight line along the border in the mountains, and beyond out into the plains dividing Mordor from Rhûn, Orcs and a handful of Uruk-hai patrolling between them. Even the easternmost border of Mordor was so heavily guarded that Bilbo didn’t want to try sneaking past them. “What can we do?” he whispered as they peered down at the orc’s fires from the Ash Mountains, “I know what the Ring will do to me – I have seen it, I can _feel_ it – I can’t keep it, I _won’t_ –“

“Peace, Bilbo,” Smaug whispered back, turning to clasp both of the hobbit’s hands in his own, “We can hide it in my part of the hoard, and keep you from it.”

Both of them were briefly silent when a Fell beast shrieked and rushed overhead, a Ringwraith on its back. Then Bilbo said, “But what if the time comes and we cannot find it again?”

The dragon chuckled softly, his eyes gleaming in the dark. “I know every cup and coin and carat in the Treasure Under the Mountain,” he rumbled, “I will not lose the One Ring, not even if all the gold in the world was melted down and forged into exact likenesses.”

Bilbo felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. In John’s memories, he could see himself as the Ring’s creature, a step above Gollum but only just. And here Smaug was, offering him an escape from that, freedom and adventure in one, just as he had offered John all those years ago. He sighed, and briefly tucked his head against the dragon’s throat.

“Let us hurry to the Shire,” Smaug said gently, “so we can go back to the Mountain.”

They were on their way west before dawn broke, flying only by night until they were well away from Mordor. Minas Tirith, Helm’s Deep, Isengard – all fell away behind they as Smaug flew as high and as long as the hobbit could bear. After they passed through the Gap of Rohan, they turned north along the Misty Mountains and aimed for Rivendell. Elrond was actually awaiting their arrival, though he did not expect a dragon to come soaring into the Hidden Valley and land in the lake below the Elf-home. Though wary of him, the elves welcomed the dragon nonetheless.

Galadriel was still there as well, recuperating from the assault on Dol Guldur. When Elrond led Bilbo into a receiving room where they could speak privately, she sat up straighter and smiled at the hobbit. “Welcome back, Mr. Baggins. What news do you bear?”

“Nothing good,” he sighed unhappily, “The orcs from the battle for the Mountain reached Mordor faster than we did, and Sauron had them guarding all the borders. We couldn’t have gotten in without being spotted by the orcs on the ground or the Ringwraiths in the sky.”

Both elves sat up in alarm. “The Ringwraiths are mounted?”

“On Fell beasts, yes. Smaug could take them down no doubt – he’s more heavily armed and armored, and his fire could probably deal some heavy damage to the Nazgûl, too. I still don’t understand, though – it’s too early!”

The elves exchanged glances. “But you have the Ring, yes?” Elrond asked.

Bilbo nodded and pulled it from his pocket so they could see it. Both of the elves reacted as if they had been struck. They talked for a while longer, debating alternatives, before they broke apart. There was little they could do at the time but keep the Ring safe and begin gathering allies.

Bilbo went in search of Smaug. He found the dragon examining the shards of Narsil, standing before its pedestal. “Even broken, it has power,” the dragon said without looking up as the hobbit approached, “It _stinks_ of it, waiting for Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” He weighed the handle piece in his hand, then reverently laid it back on the plinth. “Whole, it could slay me, if it came to it.”

“Will you make it necessary?” Bilbo asked, a note of concern leaking into his voice.

Smaug was silent a moment. Then, “I do not plan to, but plans may change. There are many more things beyond our control in this world than the last, and circles within circles, plans within plans, don’t you think?”

The hobbit hummed in agreement. “Elrond says he will lend us horses for the rest of the journey to the Shire. It wouldn’t do to have half the residents keeling over in shock at the sight of a dragon landing in the party field.”

Smaug snorted. “No, I suppose not.”

They spent the night in Rivendell, the hobbit pressed close to the dragon, who radiated heat like a bonfire even in human form, a welcome respite from the winter chill. John had been afraid of his attraction to Sherlock in a way, forever seeking a “safe” woman to focus on, Bilbo reflected, watching the dragon sleep. But here… here, although people might look oddly at romantic relations between two men (or a dragon and a hobbit), there were no lynchings or burnings or public beatings of the couple, at least in the Shire. And Bilbo could play the role of an eccentric millionaire to the hilt, so he really had no one to be concerned about but himself, for the most part. The dwarves and men and elves would accept it, or they wouldn’t.

* * *

When Bilbo climbed the last hill before Hobbiton, he looked toward Bag End and saw none of the activity he half-expected, making him sigh in relief. He claimed his keys from his neighbor by correctly answering the “security questions” he’d set and unlocked the door to reenter his home, Smaug following behind, hooded and cloaked. The dragon stooped to enter the hobbit hole, and peered around once inside. All was as it had been the day Bilbo left, now layered with dust.

Bilbo brushed off his favorite chair and sank down into it with a sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long wait for a short chapter. I'm trying to get back into both LotR and Sherlock, but I'm also trying to write my own novel, so it's going to be slow going from here on out. I'm planning to do Smauglock and Johnbo all the way up to the very end of the series, with the two of them going into the West together, but it's going to be a long road.


	5. Money or Meteors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crownless again shall be king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added an additional scene to chapter 4. Will be adjusting this chapter to suit after I get some sleep.

The hobbit and his dragon spent a month in the Shire, more to indulge Smaug’s curiosity than any real need. He poked and prodded and investigated the whole of the four districts, deducing the usual mind-boggling amount about the citizens who lived there. Yet it seemed he had learned something of diplomacy – or perhaps mere _tact_ – during his time as the Chiefest and Greatest of Calamities, because he kept his deductions to himself until he and Bilbo were alone.

Of course, given the almost universal lack of crime and scandal in the Shire, it mostly consisted of guessing everyone’s ancestry while Bilbo sat in his chair with a stack of genealogy books and an amused expression.

“-can say with a 94% accuracy that this Rorimac Brandybuck is actually a Took, based on his behavior and the shape of his nose-“

“His mother’s a Took.”

“That solves that, then. Now, from whose line is Rudibert Bolger-“

But at last, Bilbo closed up his house again, and they left on their return journey to the Lonely Mountain. Their horses – or rather, Smaug’s horse and Bilbo’s pony – carried them to Bree, then along the southernmost edge of the Midgewater Marshes and past Weathertop, Amon Sûl. As they rode past it, Bilbo stared up at the watchtower, knowing that in a few decades, Frodo would be there and would receive his wound from the Witch-King.

When the ruined tower passed away behind them, he stared down at his pony’s mane, thinking intently. “Smaug,” he said before he could second-guess himself.

Though the dragon said nothing, the hobbit was instantly the center of his attention, golden eyes taking in everything about him as if seeing it all for the first time.

“We need to try. One more time.”

He didn’t need to say anything more than that. The former consulting detective nodded in agreement, and they continued riding.

The elves had been watching for them, it seemed, for when they reached the Trollshaws, a detachment of soldiers met them on the road and escorted them past the dark forest. Both of them could understand why – Elrond dared not take any chances with the One Ring and its current Bearer.

When he heard Bilbo’s intent to try to enter Mordor one more time before they concealed the Ring inside Erebor, he nodded in approval. “If I could send an army with you to make sure that you got through this time, I would not hesitate,” he said while they sat in council together with Galadriel, “But at this point, it is too far, and too much. Some of our allies believe, but not enough. Not enough to muster the kind of forces needed to see that you reach Mount Doom unopposed.”

“And Saruman?” Bilbo asked, “Does he suspect…?”

“He does not, as near as we can tell,” the half-elven lord answered, looking to the Lady of Light for confirmation, “He has returned to Isengard and holed himself up inside, as he usually does. But his spies whisper to him always.”

“I still do not understand,” Galadriel admitted, “Though I have long distrusted him for reasons even I do not wholly understand, Saruman has so long worked with us to oppose the Enemy. Why does he now betray us?”

Smaug hummed. “If I recall correctly – and I usually do – he learned that the Shipwright – Círdan, is it? – had given Narya to Gandalf and became jealous of him, fearing – possibly rightly – that Gandalf would replace him as leader of the wizards who came to Middle-earth. I do not know his mind, but it’s possible he seeks the means to hold on to that position. Originally, he studied the powers and knowledge of Sauron for a way to turn it against him and defeat him to protect Middle-earth. Now he does so because he is envious, and wishes to supplant him.”

Galadriel sighed sadly and shook her head.

Bilbo gazed at the dragon in amusement. “And exactly _how much reading_ did you do outside of the four main books? Because I’m pretty sure you lied to me.”

“I only read _The Silmarillion_.”

“…”

“…And _The Children of H_ _úrin_ and _Unfinished Tales_. I never imagined that what I learned would have any use, but I never could bring myself to delete it.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t.”

* * *

 

“If you wish, I can carry you home to Lothlórien, Lady Galadriel.”

Bilbo glanced back to where Smaug was talking to the elf woman. She was fully recovered from the fight at Dol Guldur and was also preparing to depart, same as them. The only difference was that it was going to take her several more days to start her journey home, as she went to the Hill with only Elrond and Saruman. The elf lord insisted that she take a guard with her on her way back, and it was going to take several days for them to be ready, armed and armored and provisioned.

“Are you sure? I’ve no wish to slow you down.”

Bilbo straightened from where he’d been checking the harness they’d left with the elves, and walked over. “It’d be no trouble, my lady,” he said, “It’d be an honor. Smaug is no Ancalagon, but he’s big enough, relatively speaking, to carry us both.”

“Then it would be an honor to fly with you.”

Once Elrond was informed of the change of plans, he came out to see them off, and also to see Smaug transform. It was a fascinating thing to watch, the air around him charged with energy. His wings were the beginning, fingers spreading and lengthening as the webbing appeared between them, red-black scales pushing through human skin. He braced himself against the ground with his wrist joint, and then the rest of the transformation traveled down his body in a ripple. His face started lengthening and morphing into his familiar draconian maw, neck extending and back arching as his spines lengthened, chest expanding and shifting into a more streamlined shape. Then his tail seemed to uncurl from under his body, and his legs changed configuration, his feet changing to scaled paws with razor sharp talons. It was only when he was almost completely a dragon again that he started to grow back to his usual size. He shook his great form, making sure all of him was settled into shape, then crouched to allow the elves to put on his harness.

When Smaug took flight, leaping into the air and beating his wings powerfully, Bilbo heard Galadriel gasp behind him, her hands white-knuckling the harness. Yet as they passed through the Misty Mountains, her tension eased. The hobbit glanced back, then grinned when he saw her gazing around in wonder. With as high as Smaug was flying to clear the mountains, even the tallest of trees looked like twigs, and creatures below them were invisible, at least to his sight.

Some of the Great Eagles spotted them and came to fly alongside them, shrieking in greeting, before returning to whatever they did with their times.

The mountains fell away, and Smaug turned them south, flying over the streams and plains between the mountains and the Anduin. Even Bilbo had to admit that he was awed by the beauty of Middle-earth from dragonback. Everything seemed so far away and peaceful, like looking down into another world where there was no darkness.

The sun was just beginning its descent from high noon toward the horizon when they landed outside the forest of Lórien. Elves emerged from the trees almost immediately, bows and swords drawn – and almost dropped them when Galadriel slipped down from Smaug’s back and bowed to him. “I thank you both for bringing me home,” she said, smiling at them, “That was most enjoyable.”

“It was an honor to have you, my lady,” Bilbo replied for them, bowing back as best he could while still seated.

“And I wish you better luck this time than the last.”

“Thank you. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m sure we’ll need it.”

The elf woman turned and walked over to the other elves at the edge of the forest, then turned back and lifted a hand in farewell as the dragon took flight again.

From the edge of Lórien, they flew south to Fangorn Forest, and there concealed themselves for the rest of the day, only resuming flight after the sun had set. They were passing through Rohan, and brave though the horse lords were, the people there would panic if they saw a dragon flying overhead.

Another night, longest at that time of year, saw them almost to Minas Tirith, right on the edge of the Ered Dúath, the Mountains of Shadow, and the westernmost border of Mordor. Beyond the high mountains, there seemed to be a lot of activity, now that Sauron had returned; the whole land seemed to be aglow with a ruddy light visible even during the day.

The activity did not cease even after sunset. Smaug flew as high as he dared with the hobbit, skimming right underneath the ashy clouds that perpetually shrouded the land from the sun and following the inner edge of the mountain range to avoid exposure on the open plains beyond.

The Plateau of Gogoroth had become home to all the Orcs that had fled the Battle of Five Armies. Admittedly, there were not as many as there had been beforehand, or even at the end of the movie, but there were still enough to make Bilbo swallow thickly when he saw their masses. They were moving supplies about, already mining deep under the mountains to bring up iron for siege engines. Some artillery pieces had already been built.

But then there was an ear-splitting shriek from overhead, and one of the Nazgûl came barreling down out of the clouds, heading right for them. **“Hold on, Bilbo!”** Smaug roared, and rolled in midair, belching out a gout of dragon-fire that sent the Fell beast spinning away to avoid it. It crashed into one of the peaks and shrieked in pain, but it had done its job. Their cover was blown. The other Nazgûl were headed right for them, screaming battle cries and dropping out of the clouds.

Smaug rolled back upright as he dropped and pulled in his wings to sharpen their descent, letting gravity increase their speed as he turned them away from the blackened plains. They shot over the Black Gate before any of the Orcs manning it could stop them, then swung north again with all haste. The Ringwraiths pursued them, one of them streaking well ahead of the others to nip at Smaug’s tail. The dragon twisted in midair and bit deep into its neck, the crunching audible to the hobbit even over the rushing of the wind, the beast’s spine pulverized by the dragon’s powerful jaws. The Fell beast died instantly and plummeted towards the ground when he released it, its Ringwraith falling with it.

The others harried them to the edge of the mountains, throwing spells that hit the dragon and broke apart without damage, but there they broke off and turned back. From Udûn, where the Ash Mountains met the Mountains of Shadow, it was almost a straight shot to the southeast edge of Mirkwood. Only when the trees came into sight in the barest light of dawn did Bilbo allow himself to relax.

Smaug descended and pushed his way into the trees, the foliage already beginning to recover from its decay under Sauron’s might, though snow was thick on the ground. There was a small hollow where a tree had fallen and freed up some room, so the dragon swept the ground clean with his tail and settled into the space. The hobbit quickly checked their gear and assured himself that nothing had fallen from their packs during the aerial acrobatics, then began preparing dinner for himself.

The fire drake watched him work. **“Do you want to try again tomorrow night, or would you rather head back to the Mountain?”**

“You’re a part of this, too.”

**“ _I_ am not the Ring Bearer.”**

“Then advise the one who is.” Bilbo sat down in front of the dragon, rubbing a salve that Elrond had given him into his skin. Riding a dragon was like, and yet entirely unlike riding a pony, and he had new sores to show for it.

**“I do not know enough about Sauron to be 100% certain, but he may be expecting us to try again. Of course, he may also be expecting us to return to Erebor or the Shire – or wherever he thinks we’re hiding the Ring, if indeed he knows we have it.”**

“Oh, he knows.”

Smaug’s tail curled slowly like a cat’s, his eyes flicking this way and that as he analyzed all available data. At last, while Bilbo ate, he said, **“I believe we should make for the Mountain. Lord Elrond indicated that Gandalf had not left yet. Perhaps he will have some power or wisdom for us. Of course, we could always make for that Stair, the one Frodo and Sam took – will take? But I cannot say I advise that so soon after our last failed attempt. Minas Morgul will be guarded.”**

“Fair enough. But I don’t think we should give up either,” the hobbit replied, “I don’t want to have to pass the Ring on to Frodo and Sam. They’re both good, kind hobbits – they don’t deserve to suffer like that.”

**“‘Many that live deserve death, and some that die deserve life.’”**

“Don’t you quote Gandalf at me!”

* * *

 

Another night’s flight brought them back to Erebor just as the sun came up over the Misty Mountains in the west. The gates to the mountain were completely repaired, and Dale looked to be in much better shape as well – from the air and from a distance, at least. For a moment, Bilbo was concerned. Thorin had had time, a _lot_ of time, to reconsider his deal with Smaug and prepare to do battle to hold the mountain against the dragon, to forge more Black Arrows and bring in more warriors. Would he make an attempt to destroy the creature who had brought his family so much grief?

Yet it seemed that he need not have worried. When they passed over Esgaroth, horns sounded and echoed all the way to Dale and the Mountain. Even just the scant few minutes it took the dragon to cross the Long Lake would have been enough for Dale to prepare to attack, yet they flew over it unchallenged.

The gates of Erebor were already grinding open as Smaug descended and landed in front of the main entrance, Gandalf and Tauriel walking out to greet them. “Elrond sent word ahead that you were on your way back,” said the wizard, offering a hand to the hobbit as he swung down from the dragon’s back.

“Of _course_ he did,” Bilbo grunted, finally kicking himself free of the harness and making Smaug snort in amusement, “Couldn’t just let it be a surprise, could he?”

“It’s probably best not to try and surprise this lot,” said Tauriel, “especially where dragons are concerned. Welcome back, Sher- _Smaug._ ”

**“Thank you, Molly. Or would you prefer Tauriel?”**

“I think it would be best if we left our past lives behind us. That world is gone now; we should do our best to live in this one.”

 **“Wise words.”** He shifted back to his human shape as the other members of Thorin’s company started emerging from the Mountain, coming to welcome them all back, even the dragon.

“You were not successful, I take it,” said Gandalf.

Bilbo shook his head. “No. We delayed too long, and both times we tried, Mordor was too heavily guarded. The Orcs under Azog had already reached it, and the Ringwraiths were there, too, on Fell beasts.”

“ _’Mordor?’_ ” Thorin repeated, unable to help but overhear, “Why were you trying to enter _Mordor_?!”

Gandalf and Bilbo exchanged glances, then the hobbit dug into his pocket and pulled the Ring out. It appeared to be an ordinary band, until Smaug plucked it from his hand, breathed a short stream of blue-white dragonfire over it, and put it back. Then the Words began to glow around the edge of the band.

Some of the dwarrows looked confused, but Thorin and Balin instantly took several steps back. “Durin’s beard!” the elderly dwarf gasped, “The One Ring!”

That brought similar reactions from the rest of the dwarves.

“I need your help hiding it,” said Bilbo, “Things are – well, not _wrong_ , exactly, but they’re sure as hell not _right_. And it’s going to be a while before everything falls into place for the Ring to be destroyed. I don’t want to carry it around with me all the time – it would… _do things to me._ And Erebor is safer than the Shire.”

“What are your thoughts, then?” Thorin asked him, attentive, ready to help the hobbit how had helped retake his kingdom and brought them a powerful ally.

“Simple, hopefully. I’m still getting my fourteenth share of the treasure, right?”

“Of course!”

“Then combine that with whatever Smaug is getting, and put it all somewhere where it can’t be easily reached without help. We can hide the Ring in that.”

Balin frowned. “Will you be able to find it again?”

“As I told Bilbo,” said Smaug, “I know every cup and coin and carat in the Hoard Under the Mountain. I will not lose the One Ring, not even amongst countless exact likenesses.”

Balin nodded. Thorin appeared deep in thought, but then inspiration struck. “I know just the place.”

* * *

 

“Dwarves have lived in Erebor for almost a thousand years,” said the prince, leading them all down deep into the mountain, “The whole mountain is honeycombed with halls and tunnels, some of which haven’t seen use since the day they were carved. However, there’s one in particular that I think will be perfect for what you need.

“Erebor was a volcano before the First Age, but it has long since gone dormant. Yet the magma chamber remains. It’s far enough down that it’s nearly impossible to reach, especially if you don’t know where you’re going. We’re in one of the old lava tubes now.”

The walls of the tube had been worn smooth by dwarven workers in preparation for shaping, but the work had never been finished. “It was decided that work expanding into the deep tunnels would be put on hold until the rest of the mountain was completely full, which has not happened.”

At last they emerged onto a ledge that jutted out into a pitch-black void deep inside the mountain, deeper even than the forges and the mines. The air was warm and stale, but there was a faint breeze coming from the lave tube behind them, and others that they couldn’t see elsewhere in the massive cavern.

Smaug walked around the edges of the platform, his golden eyes piercing the darkness, yet the far walls of the chamber were too distant for even him to see. He inhaled, then spat a ball of fire up into the air. It flew out over the void beyond the edge of the platform, then exploded, sending miniature fireballs arcing throughout the chamber and revealing the whole thing for a handful of seconds.

The chamber was all of rough stone and solidified magma, matte black in the firelight, with ledges and lava tubes all over, most of them leading up and out. Its floor was fairly flat and easily several hundred meters below them, though there was one deep depression at the very bottom of the chamber, where the mantle plume had once pushed magma up into the chamber. The magma chamber itself was more than a mile in diameter, though there were signs that it had once been larger before the magma had solidified on the walls, shrinking the chamber but reinforcing and holding up the weight of the mountain above.

Smaug shifted shape and took off into the darkness. The company tracked his location by the beating of his wings, before he landed somewhere out of their sight. There was some scratching, the scraping of metal over stone, then he called, **“There’s a ledge over here, like that one, but bigger and shaped a bit more like a cup. With a little work it would be perfect.”**

He breathed a stream of fire over the stone, making it glow red hot as small pockets of fire skipped over the surface, letting them see. And as far as they could tell, he was right.

* * *

 

They kept the work for “the Dragon’s Nest,” as they started calling it, amongst themselves. Thorin and Fíli was still preparing for the former’s coronation and the latter’s confirmation as heir, but the rest of the company lent their skills to help shape the ledge into a suitable hold for Smaug’s part of the hoard, widening and deepening the “cup” to make sure nothing would fall out and smoothing its sides to prevent damage. Even Gandalf lent his aid, adding spells of concealment and confusion to the tunnels leading to the magma chamber, and protection to the hoard itself when it was finally moved to the deep cavern.

At last it was done. The Nest was ready, and one of the lava tubes leading to the outside had been reopened to that Smaug could come quickly to the dwarves’ aid if Erebor came under assault again while he was there.

One load at a time, the company carried Bilbo’s fourteenth share along a temporary walkway built around the edge of the cavern, and dumped the gold and silver and gems and inordinate amount of gold rings into the hollow in the stone. During one of those trips, unbeknownst to anyone but himself, the dragon, and the wizard, Bilbo tucked the Ring into the basket of treasure he carried and emptied it into the piles already there. The dragon nuzzled him gently, and gave the hoard a stir with his tail to conceal it further, so not even the hobbit himself could see it.

Then Bilbo went back for more.

Then that was done, and the walkway was torn down. The Ring was hidden, and there was no way across without wings, for the walls on the outside of the Nest had been smoothed down, too, to prevent anyone from trying to climb to it. On the opposite ledge, stone basins were added and filled with dry wood, to be lit to get the dragon’s attention and alert him that there was an emergency.

And at last, it was time for the coronation. All of the company stood on the dais raised before the gates, along with Dain, Thranduil, Tauriel, and Smaug, beaming with approval as Thorin knelt before Gandalf. The Istari placed the crown on the dwarf’s bowed head, smiling, and then the king smiled back at him before rising.

Then it was Smaug’s turn. He walked over to the dwarf, carrying a pillow draped in blue velvet. He inclined his head to the new king, who returned the gesture. Then he lifted the cloth off the pillow, revealing the Arkenstone, glowing serenely in the sunlight. Thorin picked it up and inclined his head to the dragon again, then turned to the crowd of elves, men, and dwarves gathered before the gates. He lifted the stone high so that all could see it, and everyone cheered so loudly they could be heard in Esgaroth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ends part one. Part two (aka the final and longest part) will cover the Lord of the Rings trilogy.


End file.
